Pulse
by froovygirl
Summary: AU for ROTS. As Padme's life hangs in the balance on Mustafar, a stream of brilliant light causes Anakin to reconsider his choices.
1. Chapter 1

_One-shot AU for Revenge of the Sith. While I've grown to appreciate ROTS over the years, I was always left cold by Anakin's actions as he met Padme on Mustafar. No disrespect to George Lucas, but I'd rather Anakin not be confined to that nasty suit. And while I'm tossing wishes at unicorns, I'd really prefer that he not be, y'know, an evil tyrant. _

_So, here's my take. _

**Pulse**

It's been pulsing like a live wire since it invaded his body. Whereas the lightness always seemed so smooth, effortless, flowing yet never overpowering, the dark side is insistent, demanding, almost_ goading_ him to use his power so others will be awed and beholden.

Where the light was about artistry and finesse, this darkness seems about raw, greedy _power._

Anakin dashes from the tower amid a backdrop of rising fire, darkness surging through his veins. The scent of acrid burning seems intensified in his nostrils, the flames bitter in his mouth.

He's both apprehensive and relieved to see her.

_Padme._ You will help balance this masterful, terrifying new part of me.

But his wife's face… It's etched with worry, ripples of fear emanating as she closes the distance between them. Glimpsing her rounded belly unhidden should soften his anxiety, but it succeeds only in amplifying it. This power… it's so _intoxicating_ that the shackles of Jedi teachings shed quickly. He feels utterly invincible as he reaches for his wife, pulling her into his arms with a breath of assurance that she's close, that she's safe.

_I'm saving you,_ he reminds himself, banishing shards of light from his cluttered mind. _I'll save you and our little one. I promise._

His head throbs as her elegant fingers touch his cheekbones, eyes searching his for… what? The pulse in his body is insistent now, so disorienting that he hears only snippets of her words clearly. _Obi-Wan. Terrible things. _Her words escape as quickly as her terror builds, her hands clutching him as his body winds tighter with this black force. There is demand in the way it readies his limbs for battle, courses with vicious purpose through the sinew of his muscle, coils for attack.

_He said you've gone to the dark side. _

He tries to temper his answers with the mischief of the Anakin he was before, to relieve her of upset. She's heavy with their baby; she shouldn't be distressed. But he feels her fear. He doesn't have to read it in the way her mouth drops open or the narrowing of her cobalt eyes. Her doubt and her anguish rise as if they are his own.

Why, by the will of the Sith, does he continue to hear the echo of his former master's voice in the recesses of his mind? _This is not your path, Anakin._

It _is_ his path. He cannot look back to who he was. _Anakin_ was gullible and deceived, stripped of the respect he'd spent a lifetime trying to earn. Between the sorrow and the scars, he'd brought glory to the Jedi Order as its champion, its Chosen One, its hero with no fear, and how had he been acknowledged?

With distrust. Rebuke. Reprimand.

It's clawing at his control, the way she retreats from their embrace and looks upon him with growing suspicion. A gnawing sense of caged violence swirls through him, seeking an opening to display his supremacy. His voice lowers to an ominous octave. It is not a request when he commands her to speak no more of his former mentor. He is no longer Obi-Wan's padawan; _he_ is the master now in every nuance except by those insignificant standards of the Jedi.

He is no longer a Jedi. He is Lord Vader of the Sith, a leader of immense influence and undisputable power.

He senses something more than her shock as she rejects him with characteristic diplomacy: "You are going down a path I can't follow!" His dark senses have sharpened; there's a tremor of betrayal inching near, heightening his agitation.

"Because of Obi-Wan?" The second he utters the name, the Jedi master's presence is inwardly confirmed. The darkness gathers like a hurricane in Anakin's chest, lashing with venom as the newly-minted Lord Vader prepares to strike, hands clenching.

He is no longer interested in Padme's protests. She has pledged her loyalty to the Jedi, to _Obi-Wan_, he realizes as his former master strolls cautiously from the deck of his wife's vessel, face taut.

Obi-Wan. His deceit, and Padme's, seems glaring now. How long have they conspired, cavorted, planned this treason? The images animate in his mind: His noble mentor scheming with his simpering wife, masterminding his demise. He can almost hear Padme's sultry murmurs, see Obi-Wan's gunmetal eyes dim in appreciation of her pale skin tangled in silky Nabooian sheets…

My _wife_! he snarls like an untamed beast from within. My home. My _bedchamber_!

They will learn what it means to defile Lord Vader. Both of them.

Anakin glances at Obi-Wan with an inward smirk that translates to his yellowed eyes. _Yes, Obi-Wan._ _You are wise to fear me._

Padme's plea goes unheard as the darkness continues to build like a tempest waiting to be unleashed. "…Come back. I love you!"

Ripe, no, _eager_ for battle, Anakin balances on the balls of his boots as the black fury begins to seep from him, starting with an enraged accusation to his wife: "_Liar!_ You brought him here to kill me!"

Her head is shaking in horrified denial even as his ire explodes. Her touch had once reduced him to a quivering fool, but no longer. Anakin was her lovestruck husband; Vader is her _lord_, and she will bow to his power, so she will never again be swayed…

_I'm saving her_, he repeats as he raises his metallic hand, gloved fingers slowly pinching together as she cries "No!" into his unforgiving glare. Her lovely face contorts in an expression he's never seen. Always, during times of fear, he has been the one to soothe, protect, comfort.

Never have her eyes reflected such alarm because of _him_. Never have her petite hands clenched at her own throat in agonized panic because of _him_. His fingers have navigated her supple skin at will, brushed and teased and caressed her into blissful madness, but they now threaten to extinguish her in seconds.

"Let her go, Anakin!" His former master advances, voice thundering through the chorus of eruptions. Padme's skin is turning pale as she flutters near unconsciousness. Anakin's eyes emit a sickly glow as the staccato pulse pounds in his temple.

His thumb and forefinger nearly touch as her terror flows through him, immersed so deeply that it's nearly staggering. She exudes anguish, disbelief, naked desperation to save…

_I can forgive what you've done, _he thinks, the rationale Anakin Skywalker would have applied completely extinct._ I'll save you. _

"You're killing her!"

Obi-Wan's bellow knifes into his trance. Before Anakin can unleash his powers on his new nemesis, a flash of… _something_… beams through the darkness in a jagged burst of light. The drumbeat in his head silences, freeing his mind to a shimmer of stunning radiance that blinds him to anything but its brilliance. Through the grime of Mustafar, through the oppressive heat of its volcanic energy, through the midnight pallor that has coated his soul, a ray of gold, so pure, pierces his addled heart.

A steady thrum whispers, calms the calamity of his mind, cleanses the darkness. One stark beat at a time, until it divides into two. The gentle rhythm calls to him, methodically hypnotizing Anakin until the clarity of its origin nearly brings him to his knees.

_By the Force, there are two. My daughter. My son._ Pristine and unharmed, Force signatures blazing, despite the turmoil in their mother. Despite the monster their father has suddenly become.

Alive. Innocent. Utterly dependent. The finest fragments of Padme and himself, fused mystically into beings that will transcend them both.

He could linger in this realm forever, enveloped by this fragile harmony, but the hell of Mustafar intrudes, chasing the light from his vision. As if singed by an invisible flame, the hand that holds his wife's fate springs open. He gasps as Padme's eyes drift closed in a thin line, her swollen stomach lurching toward the concrete as she crumples.

"No!" he roars, diving forward. "No, no, NO, Angel!" He catches her, draws her hands from her throat as he cradles her body. Her lips part for a ravaged breath, thank the Force, but her eyes remain closed. To the world, or just to him, he doesn't have time to ponder. Suddenly, he is nine years old again, stripped of bravado, trembling in fear as the ramifications of his choices crystallize. She had enveloped him in a cloak then, not nearly as warm or comforting as her luminous smile had been, and pledged to remember him…

_What have I done?_

With the three lives he cherishes most in the balance, Anakin Skywalker does not hesitate. The driving vengeance that had possessed him has dissipated in the span of a moment. In its place is his old companion, always taunting: unadulterated _fear_.

Fear for his wife. Fear for his unborn children. Icy, clenching fear that this delicate conversion back to the light will last no longer than his turn to the dark.

He has failed them all, he knows. Like he failed Qui Gon, and Obi-Wan, and his haunting failure to rescue his mother.

Even as Padme manages the shallowest of breaths, he cannot comfort her with the hands that nearly ended her life. Palms cupped and empty, he leans forward to brush her ashen skin with his lips, his shame pronounced in the grim set of his mouth.

"I… I'm… Forgive…" he stammers, but there are no words to atone for what he's done. Slowly, Anakin stands, lifts his wife gently from the ground as he flicks his lightsaber toward Obi-Wan. It clanks obtrusively on the tarmac, skitters to rest a few inches from his former master's boot. From the set of Anakin's stare, Obi-Wan cannot be certain whether he will abscond with Padme or…

"Take her," Anakin states in neither a request nor a demand. Obi-Wan eyes the unlit saber, takes note of Anakin's defenseless state. _Could be a trick of the Sith…_

Except… Anakin's eyes resemble a Naboo stream, clear and free of turbulence. He no longer twitches with barely controlled energy; the menacing chasm Obi-Wan sensed in the Force hours ago has quieted.

He looks a bit like the scamp Obi-Wan first encountered on Tatooine – clever and bold with promise, eyes too wisened for one so young.

"_I am a person, and my name is Anakin!"_

So much has changed, and so much hasn't changed at all, as Anakin speaks in a low, deliberate tone. "Regardless of what I have done, I beg you to save them." His voice falters for a moment, overcome, as he scans his wife's face. "I tried, but I – The things I believed – " Life, dark and light, drains from him as his mouth trembles and his hands clench around Padme. "They are_ innocent_. Please save them, Master, because I cannot!"

_Innocent?_ Obi-Wan yearns to snap. _Like the younglings in the Temple? Like your Jedi brethren left defenseless by unprovoked attacks?_

Anakin senses Obi-Wan's hesitancy, and his desperation escalates. The balance of darkness and light teeters recklessly in his consciousness. Now, with pristine clarity, he understands what he must do, the one thing he could not before, but is his family's lone chance for salvation…

"I deserve no forgiveness," Anakin grits. "I will regret the choices I have made for the rest of my days and willingly accept whatever retribution comes to me. My fate is sealed."

For the first time, he actually feels the sweltering heat of Mustafar, perspiration sheeting his body as it clings to Padme's. So lifeless, so pale, yet his children's Force signatures thrive even in this forlorn place.

Force, give me the strength to follow your teaching as intended, this one time…

"I know you feel them, Master. Our twins will soon be born and Padme may die because I have failed her miserably. Take her to the nearest med center. She is weak but alive, and our children are restless to meet their mother."

"And what becomes of you, _padawan_?" Obi-Wan questions bitterly, eyes narrowing as he continues to circle Anakin in a defensive posture. "You continue as Sidious' willing mercenary?"

Obi-Wan's stance does not falter as Anakin takes the first steps toward him. Padme has not stirred; her essence withers as he pleads with the famous Jedi Negotiator. _Not for me,_ Anakin implores of Obi-Wan through the Force. _For her. For them. _

"No." A grimace of shame crosses Anakin's face. His shoulders sag, but his hold remains firm on Padme. "I-I don't know what happens next. They won't have to worry about me; neither will you. I won't be near."

He will not see his children as they enter the world – with robust squalls and wayward kicks, if their signatures are any indication. He will not know if either shares his crystalline eyes or his mother's birthmark. They will be his, but he won't be theirs.

Obi-Wan surveys him with critical eyes, searching the crevices of this man who he has known – and loved as his brother – for what feels like a lifetime.

"Who are you now?" the Jedi master demands, hand loosening on his lightsaber. Still at the ready, but unneeded, perhaps. "Anakin or Vader? Jedi or Sith?"

Anakin's demeanor seems to shift at his former master's question. The deadly calm crumbles, chest beginning to heave as the magnitude of what he has done reverberates in his soul.

"I _am _a Jedi!" he rejoins heatedly, unshakable pride dripping in his tone. "And a human _being_. A slave. A _father_! A husband. A Sith. A son. A pod racer. A _brother_. A murderer. An innocent!"

He enunciates each distinctly, eyes unwavering from Obi-Wan's. The Jedi master, for all of his impeccable training and instinct, cannot fathom which of the categories his former pupil embodies in this moment. A smattering of all, he realizes, which could have been the problem all along.

"I am all of these people," the boy from Tatooine booms, "and I cannot banish the pieces of me that contradict the ideals of your precious Order!"

At once, Padme utters a quavering moan, her head burrowing into Anakin's chest. She stiffens, still not conscious, as Anakin feels the first spasm ripping through her abdomen. A surge of energy rises within the Force, innocence reaching with purpose for something, someone of likeness.

"There's no time!" Anakin frets, striding toward Obi-Wan, who, having also sensed the twins' initial foray into the world, immediately accepts Padme into his arms. He knows Anakin can subdue him with a mere flick of his hand; the marks staining Padme's throat are stark reminders.

"I'll take her." Obi-Wan is already walking briskly toward the Nabooian ship, Anakin following at a cautious distance. The animosity between them has not abated, but an unspoken truce holds as Obi-Wan reaches the gangplank.

Anakin reaches a faltering hand toward his wife's still form, and Obi-Wan does nothing to shield her.

"I do love them, Master. If that is my failing as a Jedi, so be it. I hope they'll be my salvation as a man." Anakin brushes his fingertips over Padme's swelling middle, a slow glide, savoring a tiny ripple of hands and toes nearly ready to be unbound.

"Sith don't love, Anakin," Obi-Wan reminds pointedly, but it's a gentle rebuke, something for his former padawan to ponder during the next months that Obi-Wan predicts will be both solitary and brutal.

The droids have joined them now, Artoo's multitude of beeps and whistles mingled with Threepio's excited suggestions to "exit this terrible place this very moment."

Neither man knows quite how to acknowledge that a once-resolute bond has unraveled to a tenuous filament.

"May… may the Force be with you, Master," Anakin offers, voice as low and hollow as Obi-Wan has ever heard it.

Obi-Wan cannot look away from those eyes – once so vibrant with boldness and mischief. Though returned to a cool cerulean hue, the Jedi master wonders if Anakin's eyes will ever show such life again.

"May you find the peace you need within the light of the Force," Obi-Wan finishes, turning with Padme in his arms and not a look back. Within moments, as the Nabooian starfighter disappears above the shadows of Mustafar, Anakin curls into himself, head bowing as his shoulders fall.

He collapses to his knees on the tarmac, palms coated with soot as they come to his face in dazed relief and desolation. Only the Force itself can judge him now. He has done something of which he was once incapable, and he hopes, prays, _wills_ that it is enough to save his family.

_Train yourself to let go... of everything you fear to lose, _Master Yoda had counseled.

As Anakin kneels on the tarmac, fingers digging painfully as they'd once clawed the sand near his mother's buried corpse on Tatooine, the remnants of his choices reverberate. Mercifully, he senses the steady rhythm of Padme's breathing and the awe-inspiring strum of twin heartbeats in her womb.

Yet Palpatine's thirst for vengeance already roils through the Force.

Anakin rests his face in palms filthy with grime and recrimination, regulating his breath. Palpatine's fighter draws closer, yet he is strangely unafraid. He must stay long enough, just long enough…

It will set a course for the rest of his life, he guesses. Dangling himself as provocative bait for the Sith lord he has now renounced. Draw Sidious just close enough so his family can remain hidden. Obi-Wan will see to that.

It is the only way he can protect them now.

He rises, squares his shoulders until his cape billows majestically in the stifling wind. Palpatine's ship will land in four minutes. He will be in the air within two.

He has finally let go.

_Finis._

___I'm a feedback junkie, so if you took the time to read, please take the time to let me know what you think of this. There could be more, if anyone's interested. :)_


	2. Chapter 2

_More ROTS AU aftermath. Anakin and Padme struggle to carry on without each other. _

_A few "thank you"s before I carry on…_

_angie – "Ani-back-to-the-light" stories are my faves, too. Hope this doesn't disappoint, because there are some masterpieces on this site. I'll do my best. _

_JA Carter – short, but sweet review. Thanks, and here's what you asked for._

_Heaven's Prayers – Inspiration is strong with __you__. Thank you for your insights and encouragement. _

_In the hours after Mustafar…_

Slumped over the control panel of the rundown gunship – a piece of Separatist junk, hastily stolen – suddenly, he feels it.

The last several hours of dodging firepower from Sidious' newly-minted TIE fighters and charting desperate evasion routes have drained him, but it is the Force-taunts of the Sith Lord that erode his resolve.

_You are a Sith, Lord Vader. You will return to the Dark. You've tasted its strength, indulged in its power. _

As plainly as the soot of Mustafar stains his skin, darkness clings to his soul. A pulse of seductive energy lures in sultry whispers that surround him, invade his senses, ignite a lurid blaze in his bloodstream.

Then… Through the Force comes exquisite pain that pauses his breath. He senses innocent bewilderment as his children make their way into stark, radiant light. They reach instinctively for something they do not know as the secluded comfort of their mother's inner cradle is breached.

_You crave it now, and you will crave it again. You cannot escape; it is your destiny. Rejoin me, my dark apprentice._

Anakin reaches toward the Force-brilliance of his children, opens himself to the grace of Obi-Wan's teachings, steadies his racing heart with long-simmering memories of his mother. This battle will be fought not with lightsabers or Sith lightning, but with righteous conviction, if there is any left in his tormented soul.

_Return to me now and the galaxy will be yours… mercy will be shown to those you leave behind… and all will hail the ultimate supremacy of the Sith. _

Those he leaves behind…

The tiny beings are finally unbound, and as the light bursts in unabashed glory, the tranquility of it nearly fells him. Wraps around the joy like the most comforting of cloaks that surely encases his newborns as their mother welcomes them. He loses himself in sheer gratitude that his family lives – though bone-tired, Padme's Force-signature thrives – nearly weeping in blessed relief.

His hands finally stop shaking on the throttle when a treasured voice echoes faintly through the Force, banishing Sidious' provocations. It's nearly inaudible, but there is no mistaking the lyrical tone that has been the symphony of his life.

"_Thank you."_ Nothing more. Then, it fades into the joy.

Hearing her speak to him without malice after what he's done not only to her, but to them all… No amount of Jedi stoicism will staunch his tears. Pointless to try.

He drops his head into his hands and sobs. Amid a string of alarmed trills from Artoo, a downpour of tears, more than enough for each of those he left behind the moment his soul went Dark. Until his eyes are as barren as the desert planet of his birth, and then some.

_Five months after Mustafar, in an unknown location…_

Obi-Wan had handed her the holopad with unreadable eyes.

In return, she'd activated it with a brisk manner that spoke of her former days as a senator: all business, work-to-do, nothing-to-see-here, thank you.

Still, her breath catches when his cyan image appears. No longer clothed in the flowing robe of a Jedi, her husband makes do with dark breeches and a loose-fitting tunic that do little to hide the hard edges of his body burned in her memories.

I will not, she steels herself as his image begins to speak, think of _that._

His delivery is virtually flawless, but his veiled devastation is transparent to her. And, despite everything, to watch his eyes moisten serves only to widen the fracture that formed in her heart that day on Mustafar, the day her Anakin transformed into something sinister.

The day she'd given birth to their children. Defeated and heartbroken and utterly alone, despite the presence of those who shouldn't have been there in the absence of the one who should have.

Now, watching the holo, Padme weeps bitter tears as Luke placates himself with a toy in Obi-Wan's arms and Leia gnaws at a button on her blouse. Her gaze falls to the vision of her husband.

His voice laced in defeat and heartbreak and utter loneliness.

_This is for my children, Luke and Leia. _

_There is an ache in my heart that I cannot be there to speak these words in person. Know that my absence is in no way a measure of my love for you. If things were different, I would not have this distance between us, for the depths of my love as your father go beyond the bounds of this galaxy._

Is it the vagueness of the holo, or does the scar surrounding his right eye seem more vivid than she recalls? She knows that blemish, has traced it countless times in the languid afterglow of… _don't, Padme_… but it appears almost fresh, as if it's been newly disturbed.

_Do your best to learn from my old friend, Obi-wan. His patience for headstrong, impatient young ones strong in the Force is legendary. You may not agree with him, at times, but he will guide you with a virtuous heart. _

There's a puffiness to one side of his mouth, as well. And a spill around the corner that can be attributed to dust or that greasy compound he uses on the droids sometimes, but then again, she remembers all too well how nicked and scruffy he'd look during those too-short respites from war.

_You will discover this with the passing of each day, but I must tell you nonetheless. There is simply no living creature to rival the extraordinary individual who is your mother. From the moment I met her, I was hopelessly captivated by her strength, her kindness and her beautiful spirit. _

She'd fuss and he'd shrug with a flicker of _something_ that would stifle her questions, sighing with tender reverence, "I'm all right. Happy, now that I'm with you. _So_ happy." She'd gaze into his weary eyes and half-believe him, then commence to chasing his living nightmares with her lips, hands, whispers of adoration.

_She is the finest person I will ever know. _

_Throughout my lifetime, I have felt genuinely blessed during just two moments. The first was when I held your mother's hand to pledge my life to her; the second was when she told me I was to be your father. I cherish that memory, and the hope I felt in that moment, above all else._

Blue, she realizes with a start, glancing into her son's eyes of the same bright hue. It isn't merely the default color of the holo. Anakin's eyes are _blue._

_Be happy, my children. Be wise. And know that I love you more than I could ever convey through a simple hologram._

Then the image vanishes, and she is suddenly furious.

"They're five months old, Obi-Wan! They're eating and sleeping and growing – more every day, without _him_, I might add – while he's busied himself making self-important holos in the depths of Force-knows-where! How are they supposed to understand this? They haven't mastered the art of stuffing their _toes_ into their _mouths_ yet, for Force's sake!"

"They _are_ growing." The Jedi Master largely ignores her outburst, musing in that maddeningly placid way of his as he strokes his beard. "Maybe it wasn't their ability to age that he considered." Another thoughtful stroke. "Maybe it was _his_."

"Ouch!" Leia picks that particular second to decide she's famished, despite Padme's meddlesome wardrobe. "After being up most of the night with teething twins, I'm too exhausted for riddles, Obi-Wan. Please explain it to me in Basic, or even Jedi-speak will do."

Kenobi sighs. "The Emperor is hunting him, Padme. He's alone. No one trusts him now." Not meeting his introspective stare, Padme busies herself with placating the increasingly fussy Leia. "As good as Anakin is, he's certainly intelligent enough to realize that skill and luck last only so long."

_At least that's what I tried to pry into that stubborn brain of his every waking hour. He should blasted well know it by now. _

Padme's smooths Leia's hair with a calm that doesn't reach her mouth, which gapes open. "You think he recorded this in the event that he – "

As the unthinkable roots in the pit of her stomach, she seeks to deny its existence. Anger, yes. Anger makes her rise when she desperately wants to slump in bed even as the twins cry, makes her blood race with nearly the same thrill as when Anakin nibbled that certain crevice behind her ear. Not the same – _never _the same– but fury keeps her on her feet when it would be so much easier to fall.

Like he had.

"And that bit about you teaching them? How presumptuous! How completely _selfish_ and insufferable and _preposterous _of him to think our children will follow in the path that has obviously worked out so _completely _well for their _father_!"

For a second time, Obi-Wan barely acknowledges her rantings but for a quizzical nod, damn him. The edges of his mouth curve upward, gunmetal eyes softening a smidge as he tweaks Luke's tiny nose. It's getting less awkward, Kenobi's interaction with the little ones.

It is, Obi-Wan has come to realize, the instinctive affection he'd withheld from Anakin. Because of the blasted Jedi Code that seems more nonsensical than ever.

A half-smile darts across Kenobi's face, gone by the time Padme turns to him again. "At the risk of sounding un-Jedi-like, Padme, I quite miss those things about him, too."

A biting retort sticks in her throat. Muttering something about feeding the baby, Padme exits toward her quarters. Obi-Wan is reasonably certain he sees the hand not cuddling Leia wipe surreptitiously at her cheek as the former senator curses in a language the Jedi master faintly recognizes.

It's Huttese slang a former queen would certainly not have learned during her royal upbringing.

Obi-Wan sighs again, an empty sound. Even from Force-knows-where, Anakin's presence commands the room.

That night, Padme tosses in her sleep as the twins rustle contentedly in their shared crib.

Is it a dream if it's already happened? Hazy dream or aching memory, her subconscious recalls a time not long past, but gone forever.

"_Do you know I'm proud of you?" Padme asks at a moment when her husband is scarcely in a state of mind to comprehend the sentiment. She's draped over him, bare-skinned and completely… relaxed… but he has the most fetching view of her cleavage and if it keeps fascinating him they may very well end up twining the luxurious Nabooian sheets around them all over again._

_Not that he'd mind. At all._

_She gazes at him with a serene expression of wonder, sable eyes heavy as she traces a fresh scar on his shoulder. That it seems old, yet she's seeing it for the first time reminds her of the sacrifices they make in the name of the Republic. _

"_Sometimes I'm overwhelmed by what you do. And completely terrified. Mostly terrified." _

_She reaches up, fingertips now stroking the conspicuous line etched through his brow, but her tender touch makes it feel like a mark of beauty. "But so incredibly proud, love." _

_She punctuates her declaration with kisses, barely-there, to the corner of his mouth, his high cheekbone, his temple. Soothing, thanking, worshipping. _

Half a galaxy away, Anakin is jolted from concentration by gauzy past sensations: curls tickling his shoulder, suggestive murmurs, fingertips trailing low on his abdomen…

_Do you know I'm proud of you?_

The temple near his facial scar throbs, as if to protest the memory. He turns his wrench too vigorously as emotion jolts him like an icy downpour, eliciting a string of questioning beeps from Artoo.

He stretches into the Force, senses her muted signature amid the twins' blazing presences and slowly calms. They are together, and they are well.

He exhales, sending his children a loving glimmer and Artoo a lopsided grin, but his voice is tremulous. "I'm fine, old friend. Let's see if we can fix that blasted glitch in your comlink, shall we? That last scrape with the Imps banged us both up a bit. Sorry about that."

Artoo's reply is a series of quick whistles that Anakin deciphers with ease.

"I do_ not_ have a pretty face! You see the bruises, don't you? Blasted Imps – that patrol shouldn't have been anywhere near us. Nice smoke screen, by the way. Came at just the right time."

Never a dull moment, Obi-Wan would say.

Anakin grips the wrench a bit tighter, turns it with more force, as his body groans and Artoo squawks.

"Don't worry so much, Artoo. Just a few cracked ribs, is all."

Artoo is not convinced. He whistles with gloomy mirth, but doesn't persist.

Anakin fiddles with a wayward wire inside the astromech droid, but fixing things cannot subdue his unrest this time. He doesn't know how many "scrapes" he will survive with Sidious' forces, how many times he can lure the elite patrols and bounty hunters, but in their sites he must remain.

He will protect his family. And they will always be that, whatever the distance in miles and mind.

But he'll never have her pride again.

Along with her love, he knows it is buried deep in the ruins of Mustafar.

_Finis. _

_You know the drill, I hope: Read/enjoy/throw things/smile/grimace/SEND SOME FEEDBACK. Please. _


	3. Chapter 3

_I'd by lying if I said there was even a hint of a plot here. Simply put: Anakin needs his children and the twins need him. They find a way to connect. I'll drift toward more of a plot next time and address Anakin's sins, but, for now, I'm really feeling sadAnakin. Blame my muse!_

_Before we get to it, thank yous all around:_

_Lunarballet__, thank you for your kind words. I'll keep trying to make this story perfect._

_Raiukage__, I'm glad you like where I'm going with Padme and Anakin, separately. Believe me, I love them together, but neither is capable of that just yet. Anakin will torture himself plenty before he sees his wife again. Spoiler: He and Obi-Wan will have it out before that…_

_Guest__ and __Katyperry22__, thank you for taking time to comment. Your feedback gives me fuel to continue. :)_

Chapter 3

_Somewhere in the galaxy…_

He's settling into drowsy unrest – blast, _when_ are those pain meds going to kick in? – when a whistle of _something_ interrupts. A tentative probe into the Force, clumsy and untrained, ignites his attention. He's less than a day from his last encounter with Imperial troops and his focus is weary, but his very pores spark as he concentrates on the crude overture.

_Luke…_

There's pain. Not as acute as Padme's when the twins were born, but the tiny boy is agitated, his Force-signature a scatter of distress. Anakin abruptly sits up in his makeshift sick bay, discounting the scalding blaster burn on his thigh as he reaches to his son, tickling him with soft, soothing waves of tranquility. _It's all right, little one. Ssh, ssh. You're all right, your mother is near..._

_Please, let her be near. _Hurriedly, Anakin searches the Force, relieved to find both Padme's and Leia's signatures subdued, but close to Luke's – the girls are sleeping, he supposes. From the intensity of Luke's unease, however, he suspects the boy is crying, though he can't actually hear it.

No, he can't hear his son. Can't gather Luke in his arms and tuck his baby-smooth head under his chin, kiss a bare, fuzzy spot and whisper nonsensical things to comfort.

What color is Luke's hair? Anakin wonders with a pang of self-hatred. Is it silky, like his own, or does it spring with curls like Padme's? At ten months and three days, Luke should have hair – Anakin's heard some babies are born quite bald, but Luke must have sprouted some by now. Leia, too. And their eyes – blue or brown? Do their teeny eyes crinkle when they smile, like Padme's, or…

_You're not helping,_ Anakin scolds himself as Luke's distress reaches a higher pitch. He has to be squalling, unless he's inherited his mother's staunch stoicism and has confined his suffering inward. There's another stab of pain, poor thing, and a deep ache near his… _what is it, son?_

…mouth.

Luke's getting a tooth. Quite a stinger of one, from the fright rolling off the wee boy. Anakin can imagine stubby arms and legs flailing, pinpricks of tears falling from his eyes of unknown color. Luke, alone and stubbornly silent in his crib…

Helpless, Anakin begins to hum from the back of his throat, the rumble both in his mind and aloud. He discounts his own throbbing wound as he lays back in his bedroll, arms useless at his sides.

The tune is harmlessly simple. He vaguely remembers his mother singing it for the young ones when they'd get unruly in Watto's shop. The lyrics are lost in time, but the melody has somehow lingered, despite… _Attachments, Anakin, they'd reprimand with impatient sighs. _Across generations, Anakin reaches for his son, one of two people in the galaxy who shares Shmi's blood, and concentrates, hums, _loves_…

He imagines his arms full of his son, sees himself sifting fine, golden hair with gentle fingers while babbling in Luke-speak, a half-smile livening his face. He visualizes a transcendent beacon of the purest love piercing the gloom of here and now, imagines it floating across the universe to drape over his children like a delicate sunrise. A fathomless link that will nurture them, protect them, love them as he so fervently wishes he could.

Somehow, Anakin _sees_ his son. Luke's eyes are the color of the breathtaking waterfalls of Naboo. They widen as an unpolished melody quiets his pain. Luke's gurgles of innocent delight echo through the Force, send tremors down Anakin's spine as he absorbs the light of his son, tucks this treasured gift away for days ahead.

In this magical realm where Luke's goodness surrounds him, Anakin could surrender. He could cease being the hunted one in a galaxy where he is sequestered from both the dark and the light. He could wake without fear and foreboding and shame so daunting that it nearly fells him before he can muster the fortitude to rise.

He could just _stop. _

But he cannot. He does not deserve to bask in Luke's dazzling light. The darkness within him would seek greedy vengeance, smother the light's brilliance and, eventually, extinguish his son entirely.

And yet, there is this moment. Of father and son, of gleaming light breaking resolutely through the dark.

Too soon, Anakin senses a regulated pattern in Luke's breathing as his son drifts back to slumber. The father isn't long from it himself, his body and soul desperately battered. He longs to keep this connection, just another minute, but, reluctantly, he releases it. Too dangerous for them both. He's drained from shielding his son for this precious snippet of time.

Maybe he will find a bit of peace this night, Anakin thinks as he slips near unconsciousness. He's almost there when he feels it again, except this time the tug in the Force is abrupt. No more experienced than the last, it pulses, emboldened and searching. It does not seek shelter or comfort.

It's just… curious.

_Leia. _

They're quite a pair, his children. Bright, but innocently powerful. Not to be outdone by the other.

Anakin's eyes flutter, but his mouth has curled into a tired smile. He imagines his arms full with his daughter, the lashes of her cobalt eyes brushing his shoulder as he secures a downy blanket tighter, warding off the chill.

"Hello, Leia," he whispers into the stillness of his dingy quarters. The Force is indeed merciful today; he can _hear_ her excited infant-giggle, as well, a much more robust sound than Luke's. He blinks grateful tears, muffles a sob. "You _are_ a clever one, princess. I sing like a wookie, but your brother seemed to like this…"

His grin stretches as he begins to hum.

_Finis. _

_Please take a teensy few seconds to let me know what you liked, disliked and what socked you right in the gut. Thanks! _


	4. Chapter 4

_Meandering toward a plot. Really. _

The twins have a secret.

Somehow, they've discovered how to coax a noise that sounds suspiciously like laughter from Threepio. Padme has yet to decipher what, exactly, makes the stuffy protocol droid chuckle in that prim robo-drone.

When she questions him, Threepio answers with an uptight "human infants are such strange creatures" before tottering away.

Because laughter – even a tinny imitation of it – is in short supply, Padme does not ask again.

And while she and Obi-Wan navigate their situation with superficial ease, their prickly peace shows cracks of anger. Because they grieve the same man in immensely different ways, it is achingly difficult to discuss him.

They usually don't.

On one occasion they'd tried, Padme had recounted Anakin's reaction to his unplanned, but wholly anticipated fatherhood.

"He had a lovely few _hours _to be happy," she'd reminisced with misty eyes – the only time Obi-Wan associated hurt with her musings about the twins. "He touched my stomach and prattled on about the things he'd teach her – was convinced we were having a girl. He even sang me a lullaby he remembered from his mother's time. Hummed it, actually." Her lower lip had trembled as she'd emitted a sound between a snicker and a cry. "He couldn't remember the words."

The exiled Jedi master reckons it's the same melody that haunts through the Force each evening as the barren wind rages through the Dune Sea. He's seen the twins stare into shards of Tatooine moonlight, limbs kicking impatiently as they listen for a familiar whistle that reaches their ears only at bedtime.

He hasn't the heart to end Anakin's clandestine connection with his twins. Alarmed at first, Obi-Wan has come to understand the benefit to both parties. And, between Anakin's mental shields and Obi-Wan's own, Luke and Leia are safe from malevolent detection.

Obi-Wan wonders how safe he'll be once Padme realizes the source of her children's bedtime enchantment.

"He saw me die the night I told him about our baby," she'd continued on that one occasion, and Obi-Wan had unintentionally bristled. Anakin. Husband. Baby. How could such a profound attachment have eluded him? It was one of countless guilts that gnawed at Obi-Wan, bolstered his resolve to protect Anakin's children at all cost.

"He had that dream almost every night. He grew terrified. For me. For our baby. He would've done anything…"

Obi-Wan could imagine the Anakin who'd knelt before Sidious and pledged himself – needy, desolate, unwavering. What he couldn't have foreseen, however, was the Anakin who'd wielded the lightsaber master and padawan had constructed together, newly-sallow eyes ablaze with murderous intent.

He wondered which Anakin he'd see when they met again.

"Good night, little ones."

From far too many parsecs away, the father coos to his children, eyes shuttered in concentration. With an amused tug of his mouth, Anakin senses annoyance in his boy and directs the Force to lift Luke's plush bantha from Leia's side as he whispers his nightly farewell: "Sleep well, Luke. Rest easy, Leia. I am always with you."

His voice trails across the galaxy, winds around the stars that separate them. One day, he tells himself firmly, I will tuck you in as a proper father should. I _will._

His nearness to the twins fades into their sleep. Soon, he slips into the dark, as well, seeking a restoration that will not come. Rarely does he sleep anymore, his dreams often a mirror of subconscious torment. Some nights, he visualizes the voiceless cries of the younglings in the Temple, their faces dull masks of incredulity, rather than terror.

He'd attacked with such stealth that there had been no time for their fear.

_You did what had to be done, my friend,_ comes a silken persuasion, a present voice invading past memory._ Few would have had the courage to strike so decisively. _

This night, distorted Tusken raiders float before his eyes, near-demonic in veiled coverings and robes. Their slaughter had been merciless; he recalled no blood or throes of agony as his lightsaber cleaved them cleanly, brutally.

It was the first time that seductive intonation had slithered through his mind.

_Retribution,_ it had growled, soft as the rustle of sand through his fingers. _Avenge your mother._ Like a phantom serpent, it had coiled in the pit of his stomach, tentacles directing his movements as he'd clutched his mother's corpse. _Channel your grief into power._ _Act so all will remember the wrath of the Chosen One…_

Anakin's head tosses in unrest, curls damp against his neck, but he cannot shake himself awake. In the next vision, of a crib decorated with soft hues and fluffy blankets, there are two infants, one dark and one light. So tiny, so perfect. They sleep unencumbered by the galaxy's perils, nuzzling into their bedding and each other for the familiarity that brings peace.

An unbreakable attachment.

With an iridescent flash, however, the serenity of his dream shatters. A figure bathed in sinister shadow approaches the crib, its purpose evident. A crimson lightsaber glows in the grip of two hands sheathed in black. Too late, the light-haired child – _Luke!_ – opens his eyes to a swirl of illumination coming closer, closer.

Anakin yearns to move, but he is captive to this nightmare. Aghast, he watches as his son is halved with brutal efficiency_. No, not Luke!_

The blow is too quick for his son's realization, but now the scarlet blade blurs with what looks like currents of blood as it advances toward Leia. Across, down, sharp slash, deep thrust – _oh no, NO, Leia!_ His astute princess _had_ sensed the evil, seen with innocent eyes the brutality that stalked her before the weapon pierced her chest with calculated ferocity. She'd let out a terrified wail, choked off with an abruptness he's heard himself, too many times before his azure blade swallowed their cries…

A moan of the damned fills his soul, reminds him that the children of the Jedi's disgraced Chosen One deserve no less than this. His atrocities at the Temple hold equal, irredeemable shame.

Transfixed, he watches as the demon's newly-ungloved hand – mechanized digits stained with Skywalker blood – moves to reveal an identity. With agonized slowness, the "hand" pushes muddy fabric from a cloaked face, the revelation of a monster…

The face of Anakin Skywalker – his _own_ face – emerges, yellow eyes glittering with satisfaction, when the vision finally releases him. "No!" he roars into the night, heart electrified as he clamors for his lightsaber. "It can't be, it can't be, _it can't be_…"

It isn't, he realizes after a panicked time, gaining his senses breath by breath. Thank the Force, it_ isn't_ this time, but…

_Soon,_ the sinewy voice pledges with undisguised malice._ You will return to my side, dark apprentice. If not you, then another with your gifts. Someone you love, perhaps? Unless your 'affection' becomes deadly, again…_

Anakin struggles to find calm in calamity, opens himself with uncharacteristic vulnerability to the light of the Force and feels it wash over him like the pristine waterfalls of Naboo.

_Who are you? _Obi-Wan's words from Mustafar reverberate as if his former master is kneeling at his bedside_. Jedi or Sith?_

Hands clasped behind his back in the ancient stance of Jedi meditation, Anakin answers with utmost conviction, and it is the blueprint for all that will happen next.

_Father. _

_Finis. For now, anyway. _

_A quick and heartfelt shout out to everyone who commented, added my story to their favorites and even added me as a favorite author (whoa!). The Force was with your feedback, and that's why there's a chapter 4. Namaste, and much obliged! _


	5. Chapter 5

_I'm all about tortured Anakin because those few hours of evil as Vader packed a punch. But it's time for him to start behaving like the hero he is, so here's Anakin regaining a bit of his trademark swagger, with a little third-person assistance from Obi-Wan. Welcome back, badass Ani. _

_I can't say it enough: Feedback is my writing Gatorade, so please let it fly!_

_Queen Naberrie, Eldar-Melda, AAA, Guest (wish I knew your name) and Raiukage – you're awesome and much appreciated. To answer a question: I don't really know how long this story will be. I can't see it going novel-length, but there's an endpoint in my head. As long as it takes to get there is as long as "Pulse" will be. _

_Now, on to Ani's predicament of the day…_

_The Imperial Palace, Coruscant_

_Six weeks after the twins' first Life Day_

Well, _kriff._

Imperial Stormtroopers.

Binders that have been specially created for him, apparently, as his Force abilities have yet to make them budge.

Overrated freighter that may – or may _not _– possess the capacity to jump to hyperspace once he improvises his daring escape plan. Which, since he's in the midst of assessing how much trouble he's in right _now_, he hasn't had two seconds to think about yet.

It's all beginning to mightily piss him off.

Should've listened to that whisper, Anakin chides himself. Not the Sithspit drone that causes a clench of his hands and his heart; the steady, understated voice that reminds him of lighthearted breakfasts at Dex's, lively games of dejarik in the Temple and those things he doesn't dare mention about Cato Nemoidia…

_I've got a bad feeling about this._ Thanks for the foresight, Obi-Wan.

Blast him for being right even when he isn't here.

Now, Anakin's a little tied up in the stronghold of the Sith lord who's spent equal time trying to turn him and butcher him. Worse, there's a strange, smart-ass of a boy hidden in the stolen, piece-of-Sith freighter that may or may not get him off this rock, his plan (now that he has one) has serious glitches and his children get Force-cranky if they don't hear him croaking like a Wookie at bedtime.

If this predicament interferes with the Skywalker bedtime ritual, the Huttspawn responsible is really going to _pay._

Bright spot number one: These Stormtroopers were certainly not trained by the Jedi, because, while one of the whitecaps has removed his lightsaber, the clone also clipped it to his pristine-white Imperial uniform in plain sight. Anakin can summon his weapon easily enough, once his scrambled escape plan takes shape.

Bright spot number two: The other poorly-trained Imp didn't bother to inventory the crannies of Anakin's gear pack, which means he may still be able to salvage a plan he's certain Obi-Wan would label as "foolhardy," if not "completely suicidal."

Tell me something I don't already know, Anakin grouses to himself (probably) or is it to…

Kark. _When _did he start having imaginary conversations with Obi-Wan? And playing the role of "maddeningly reasonable Jedi master" in his own head, no less?

Anakin's uncertainty begins to ebb. Though it's been awhile since he's been in such a perilous situation, instinct and muscle memory will return. In the meantime, he'll place his trust on the Tatooine grit honed from roughshod dealings in Watto's shop and, of course, the Jedi teachings he's come to revere the last few months.

He'll try to downplay the lightning-quick adrenaline that electrifies him to his very toes. On some base, instinctual level, he's missed this, the purpose and fury and utter vitality that invades him on the battlefield.

And yet, this feels completely foreign, what with borrowed breeches that move nothing like Jedi attire and a novel emptiness every time he glances to his side for the one who should have his back…

Skywalker and Kenobi, no more.

_Focus._ The directive floats through his mind with placid calm, centers him. _Concentrate only on the task at hand, padawan, _his master used to say with utmost patience after Anakin had barreled into something that usually involved snarls of "Jedi scum!" and blaster fire in rapid succession.

_Feel the Force surround you. Free yourself to its direction. _

The most apt pupil he's ever been, Anakin listens. Although the light envelops him in its warm, soothing embrace, the dark is never far. It pulses, it swirls, it seeks to devour, if allowed even a sliver of entry.

I will not succumb to the darkness, he grits, mouth clenched painfully as he seeks the luminous Force-presences of his children. I will not_. I will not. _

He feels it before it weaves into his mind, an icy avalanche that elicits an involuntary shiver. 

_You already have,_ the sinister voice contradicts, gentle as a kiss.

Anakin remembers the first time he saw the Presidential Palace. For a scamp accustomed to miles of boundless sand and horizons of burnished gold, the palace was the first building he felt the urge to touch. He'd trudged miles from the Temple, each step cementing this bold new direction of his young life, until he'd stood before the majestic pyramid of brick and splendor, awed.

A far cry from what it is now, he thinks. Towering. Garish. Grotesque.

He supposes that was Palpatine's – make that Sidious' – point with the massive renovations. As Anakin is marched roughly toward the heart of the so-called Imperial Palace, a Stormtrooper holding each forearm in vice-like grips, his nose wrinkles in distaste.

Padme would have struck the match on this monstrosity herself.

He wonders if the clones are as bored with walking as he is. The building seems endless, and deliberate drags of his boots slow Anakin's progress toward the opulent throne. When it becomes less a dot in the distance, he makes out a shadow that dulls the endless glimmer of mirrored crystal. The dark shape does not move, although, as he is forced closer, Anakin realizes he can hear it _breathe_. In and out, louder with each respiration, until it's an ominous echo he's certain rings through the ears of each Stormtrooper and Royal Guardsman.

There are a dozen of them, give or take. Obi-Wan would like his chances.

Anakin's meandering insolence finally grates on his guards. One kicks at Anakin's boots while the other jabs his ribs. No words are exchanged, but the meaning is clear: Quickly; the Emperor awaits.

He slows his pace even further as he approaches the circular glass that offers a grated, breathtaking view of the city. His chin juts slightly in defiance as he passes the once-stately spires of the Jedi Temple rising through the clouds. There is a hint of melancholy with his sideways glance at his former home – although embattled and scarred, it remains standing.

He swallows, hardening his glare on the shadowy figure. In retarded motion, it rises from the throne, slides effortlessly from a sitting position to full height as it strides toward Anakin. The former Jedi's hands clench within his binders as his eyes narrow, anger surging.

The mangled face of Darth Sidious comes into view, skin a deathly mix of yellow, crimson and ash. The Sith lord smiles faintly as he sidles closer to Anakin, giving an abbreviated bow and a curt incline of his head. The deep wrinkles of his face seem to recede further into the monster's skull as Sidious pauses, expectant.

Anakin glares back with a fabricated calm. He can feel Sidious' hatred, a live, pulsing beat of growing enmity, but he does not flinch. When he sees Sidious' slight nod to his captors, Anakin locks his knees in anticipation.

The first kick comes swiftly to his calf; Anakin buckles, but holds firm. The second blow originates from above, a shockingly-quick chop to his head that dissipates through his chest. With normal use of his hands, he'd still be standing, but the impact drives him toward Sidious' opulent footwear. Anakin tightens his core muscles with a grimace. He's bent almost entirely over himself, hair in disarray as sweat beads his skin, but, by the Force, he's still on his feet.

The Emperor finally growls, jerking an arm toward him. Now fearing for themselves, the Stormtroopers apply their formidable strength, brandishing blows to Anakin's legs, arms and stomach as gravity pulls him inevitably down.

Anakin hears the cackle as his thighs sink to the ornate marble, tempers his rising fury. Obi-Wan would call him foolish for expending so much energy on one gesture of insolence, but it sparks a cascade of energy, even as the Sith is busy gloating.

"Your sabbatical has bred neglect," Sidious hisses, placing a bony hand on Anakin's shoulder. "You _will _kneel before me, Lord Vader." The fingers curve, clench.

"That name means nothing to me." Said smoothly, no fluctuation in tone. Sidious stifles an uproarious guffaw. The boy really means it, pathetic fool.

There is a gradual dig of fingertips into Anakin's shoulder. "No? How shall I address you, my apprentice?" The yellow eyes flare. "Master Jedi?" A coveted rank, unearned.

"Angel?" A mocking of Anakin's endearment for his treasured one.

The fingers probe into Anakin's skin with more pressure as Sidious leans forward. There will be marks, but Anakin's shoulders remain fixed, his head regally high, and a vision of his wife's steely posture preceding the firefight of Geonosis flashes, holds.

Sidious' nails break the skin of Anakin's shoulder as he draws close, a fiery glow pulsing in his eyes. His next words are uttered with deliberate, sing-song cruelty: _"Daddy?"_

As the darkness whirls around them both in a voracious maelstrom, its vile energy barely contained, Anakin Skywalker's eyes gleam an unmistakable blue.

"Call me what you wish. You'll be dead before you do it a second time, _my master." _

_to be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

_Imperial Palace at Imperial City_

E chu ta, e chu ta, e-_kriffin'_-chu ta!

Anakin curses a spectacular streak in his mind as he surreptitiously scans the throne room. Draperies of the finest Nabooian silk are bright and achingly familiar – so, Sidious hasn't abandoned all trappings of the home planet he terrorized during the Empire's infancy. Interesting.

Pedestals bearing pillaged trophies flank the throne. There's a headdress from an Ithorian high priest, a hallowed granite totem made by a Myyydril tribe of Kashyyyk.

Pretty war prizes, all in a row.

He winces, recognizing a majestic stone on prominent display: The Heart of the Guardian crystal, a sacred treasure from deep in the halls of the Jedi Temple. Anakin himself had presented the precious artifact to his new master after the extermination of the Jedi with a tremulous hand stained by the blood of younglings.

That was the first, and only, time Sidious had unleashed his wrath on him. The bolts of Sith-lightning had crawled up his flesh-arm and splintered throughout his spine, leaving him stunned and choking sulfur.

"Your loyalty is of your choosing," Sidious had admonished then, eerily resembling a demonic figure with tarnished, bared teeth. "I will tolerate no regrets, Lord Vader."

That time was my last as your willing liege, Anakin pledges from his position on the elegantly-marbled floor. He well knows that the bond he forged with Sidious can be severed only in death; apprentice or master, the Rule of Two does not discriminate.

That death, Anakin promises, will not be mine.

He takes swift inventory of his earlier handiwork, pinpointing locations where he'd hidden explosives nearly under the very boots of scarlet-robed Royal Guardsmen. Pity they'd caught on only after he'd planted nearly the entire supply from his gear pack.

The devices pack a nasty punch and can be detonated instantly, but each resembles an innocuous, pesky insect. He even improvised a slight buzzing sound to solidify the disguise.

With any luck at all, his army of miniature bedbugs will ignite this place like a legion of lightsabers, and with the same lethal results.

There are still a few flaws to be rectified. Namely, the binders, the gear bag resting on the clueless Imp standing guard and his weapon clipped to the armor of the other clueless Imp. He quietly seethes at that, itches to summon his weapon back to its rightful place, but…

_Patience,_ Obi-Wan would advise.

Now to the task of setting the last, and strongest, explosives right under the Emperor's gruesomely disfigured nose. Suddenly, Anakin imagines his own features discolored and twisted, envisions the twins recoiling from him in horror…

No. _Never._

"… seem quite… unconcerned… for a man in your precarious position," Sidious remarks, unruffled by Anakin's earlier claim to end his life. "I've threatened the existence of those you _love_ – " he spits the word as if it is the most repugnant in his extensive vocabulary " – and yet you are uncharacteristically serene."

"It would be _concerning _if my wife and child were in a position of risk," Anakin shoots back, inflection appropriately enraged. "As you are doubtless aware, they did not survive the incident on Mustafar." His breath catches a bit_. It so easily could have been._

Sidious turns, hands clasped in front of him in docile posture. If not for his wretched appearance, his manner would have one think him rather grandfatherly. "Naboo is my homeworld, Lord Vader. I am aware that your wife and _children_ are very much alive." An expression that can be interpreted as chillingly paternal sends a shiver down Anakin's spine. "Twins. How… fortuitous."

Sidious extends a crooked hand toward the Guardian crystal, which rises slowly from its pedestal and floats through the air to rest in his upturned, aged palm. "I applaud Senator Amidala's survival strategy. With one Jedi unavailable, another replaced you quite nicely." His bony fingers trace the crystal's jagged contours, fingernails scraping the surfaces with an edgy whine. "Tell me, Lord Vader, what do your children call Kenobi when he tucks them in at night?"

Fleetingly, Anakin ponders the possibility of attaching the last charges to the voluminous folds of Sidious' overcoat. Decisive, powerful, messy – a just end for the duplicitous Sith.

Satisfying, too.

Anakin's face resembles an impassive mask, although loathing rises. Sidious takes an abbreviated stroll around the chamber, his too-red mouth pursing as unintelligible sounds rumble in his throat. He is an animal, sleekly prowling about a cage, but dark, kinetic energy surrounds him.

"No matter." Oh, yes, you vile Sithspawn, my children _do_ matter. But Anakin does not speak, and it further exasperates the Sith lord.

"My friend, I am quite troubled by the journey you have taken since we last met. As I recall, the extent of the Jedi treachery was as repugnant to you as it was to me. You made certain… vows… that cannot be broken." Palm flat, Sidious wags his fingers and the Guardian crystal rises above them, hovering lazily, then proceeds toward Anakin, circling him once, twice. Goading.

"As _I_ recall, you made certain vows, as well," Anakin replies, trading an overt parlor trick for another as he stealthily levitates a score of tiny charges from his gear bag on the guard's shoulder to strategic locations throughout the throne room. Pedestal, drapery, rug, pedestal, throne – put a good dozen there – chandelier, statuette, Sith tapestry, stairs, another pedestal. "Namely, to ensure my wife's survival, which was obviously beyond your realm of power." Deny, deny, deny; keep her safe!

"Have I not kept that bargain?" Sidious asks with gilded confusion. "Your wife _lives_, Lord Vader. Your children _thrive_ in the care of their mother and your former master. I have felt them in the Force." He fairly slithers up the stairway with a veiled smile, robes slogging behind in what reminds Anakin of a coiled serpent before it lashes. "For _now_. I would be remiss if I did not mention that I have a legion of my finest troops and some rather ruthless bounty hunters tracking Kenobi now. He will be executed, as all traitors to the Empire must be."

Anakin's fury surges, crests, overflows before he can release it into the Force. "My wife lives because I relinquished her fate to the will of the Force! _My_ fear, _my_ manipulation, my _hate_ nearly killed her!"

He feels his command slipping toward a place of dangerous intent, forces himself to breathe in a cadence mimicking meditation. In. Out. Control. He cannot succumb to Sidious' exploitation, not again. He is the Hero With No Fear. He is the Chosen One. He is –

An abrupt cackle bursts as the Guardian crystal whizzes around Anakin's body, a shimmering beacon in the dank room. Sidious' eyes grow almost fevered with amusement. "Chosen One!" Disdain drips from his mouth. "I had hoped your sabbatical brought you clarity, my boy, but you remain susceptible to Jedi deception. Allow me this enlightenment, if you will, so your mind will be clear."

Sidious clasps his hands as if in solemn prayer, yet his glare is one of unholy dement. He seems rather pleased. "You are indeed the Chosen One – of the _Sith_ Order, _not _the Jedi. You were created by my master, Darth Plagueis the Wise, as the ultimate savior of the_ Sith_. Your destiny is as it always has been, to obliterate the Jedi and restore the rightful Sith dominion throughout the galaxy."

Anakin throttles a bellow. "You really _are_ emptying your blaster. Quite shrewd, old man, but you can't possibly think I'll believe you." Memories of a revered Jedi with silver-streaked hair and a fierce countenance flash. "Why would I trust you over the beliefs of Qui-Gon Jinn and the High Council?"

As embers of uncertainty kindle in the former Jedi, Sidious keeps his lined face a modicum of calm. "The same council that rejected its Chosen One and questioned your loyalty after you brought nothing but honor during the Clone Wars? The same _sage_ masters who granted you grudging acceptance, but could never quite bring themselves to _trust _you as one of their own? Is that how a grateful entity acclaims its Chosen One?"

Sensations of that day return like a downfall of icy water: ambition, resentment, arrogant pride.

_You are on this Council, but we do not grant you the rank of Master. _

_How can you do this? This is outrageous, it's unfair… I'm more powerful than any of you!_

I'm not worthy enough. I'll never be the Jedi of their design. I don't belong, I am not one of them –

One of _them._ Perhaps the Force never truly intended that.

"I never told you the rest of the tale regarding my master, Darth Plagueis," Sidious continues in a tone Anakin recalls from his childhood. Warm and silky, it provided comfort from the harshness of Coruscant, the staring eyes in the Temple, Obi-Wan's criticism. "My master was an apt student of science, particularly of how biology related to midi-chlorians. For years, he worked to create a supreme dark being who would restore the Sith to glorious power. During that time, we were inseparable."

Sidious lowers his hood, lifts his head to the ceiling and inhales before leveling his gaze at Anakin, and the younger man finds he cannot avert his eyes. "Much like you and Kenobi."

The Sith senses it acutely. The darkness, dormant but opportunistic, stirs within the former Jedi, its talons unfurling; it preys on Anakin's aura of fear. Even to one accustomed to its shadowy allure, the draw is enthralling.

Aware of the looming darkness, Anakin straightens his shoulders, widens his stance as if his sheer physical prowess can deflect it. _He feasts on your panic. _But the binders seem to shackle him even more tightly.

"Remember, my friend, which Order braced you during your times of greatest need. You needed strength to gain retribution when the Tuskens murdered your mother. The Dark Side filled you with the power to enact your revenge. Darth Tyranus would have assassinated me during the kidnapping, yet you rescued me with your superior skills and even saved Kenobi's helpless skin."

The boy glares over Sidious' shoulder now, a defensive posture sloping his frame. Excellent_._ A few more well-played emotional daggers and Lord Vader's mercurial heart would once again drum only for the Sith Order…

"Tell me, my boy, what do you suppose the Jedi would have done if you'd approached them about Padme?" At the mention of his wife's name, Anakin's head snaps. He glowers as he brings his eyes into direct line with the blazing fire of Sidious.' "Would Obi-Wan have allowed such disregard for the Jedi Code? Or would you have become the Lost Twenty-First, even after all you'd sacrificed?"

A foreign mist permeates the air in the throne room, heavy enough to cling to Anakin like a jagged cloak. It feels like an extension of the damnable binders, suffocating him with its vise-like grip as he absorbs Sidious' version of his life. Shards of truth malign the Jedi brethren he so desperately wants to believe would accept him, Chosen One or not.

But he knows such a hope is the ultimate lie.

Obi-Wan would not have condoned his numerous breaches of the Jedi Code. The Council would have demanded his lightsaber and banished him in rigid defense of its ancient standards.

"You are a Sith and a sorcerer," Anakin growls, but he lacks the robust conviction that propelled him to Imperial Center in the first place. He shrugs as if to rid himself of the shadows prickling at his skin, holding fast to his chosen identity. "You forget that I know who you are, Sidious, not who you claim to be."

"As I know who you are," Sidious rejoins with a forceful clench of his hands. "Anakin Skywalker was a frightened little boy who grew into a man ruled by his fear _because_ of the Jedi." His robes swirl as he rises quickly to his feet, advancing down the stairs until Sidious is close enough for Anakin to snap his wrinkled neck, once he conquers these kriffing binders. "Show me, _Anakin_," the Sith grits, eyes flashing crimson with bared contempt, "that your fear no longer defines you. Those binders were one of my master's last experiments. They will open only to the power of the Chosen One of the Sith Order. Assume your true identity and make them yield to their master!"

Reflexively, Anakin stills his hands, even though an invisible fire has ignited within them, scorching him from the inside. _There is no emotion; there is peace._

Sidious' entreaty grows louder, seems to lick around the edges of his consciousness. "Search your feelings. You know this to be true."

Anakin closes his eyes, reaching for the light that has sustained him since his earliest memories of sand and slavery. _There is no passion; there is serenity._

"Take your place, Lord Vader. It is the only way to save your son and daughter from the treachery of the Jedi now."

More vicious lies. _There is no chaos; there is harmony._

The malice grows more intent as Sidious incites further turmoil. "You know nothing of Master Yoda's plans for your children, do you? You wouldn't, of course, as you've never been allowed passage to your own flesh."

The flames climb from the tips of his fingers upward, charring sinewy muscle and bone in their path toward his heart that pounds as if seeking to disengage from his chest. _There is no ignorance, there is knowledge._

"Yoda intends to separate your children. They are already too powerful, too reckless, too feared by the few surviving Jedi. There is great power in your children, Lord Vader. They, too, will rise up to lead the Sith Order one day – "

"No!" Anakin roars, rising from his subservient position to full height, eyes flashing deadly auburn as his wrists snap free in a single, enraged motion. The inferno has spread throughout his limbs, consuming him in a sweep so overpowering that he can scarcely breathe. _"My children will be slaves to no one!"_

Before the Royal Guardsmen can twitch, Anakin has summoned his lightsaber and lunged it expertly through them in deft, precise strokes. A handful of Stormtroopers advance from all angles, but the former Jedi makes short work of their blasters, intercepting rapid fire with a blur of azure magnificence. His hands move with feral grace, orchestrating a quick defeat of Sidous' last defense, but Anakin feels no triumph in the kills. There is only a driving need to save his children, view their faces with his own eyes, reclaim them as the flesh of his flesh…

He doesn't remember Force-fastening the binders around Sidious' wrists, but the Sith lord stands before him, relishing the tumult he has sown. Sidious has always had a hunger for killing, and witnessing Vader's prowess stirs his blood-lust. This particular episode was rather efficient, Sidious muses, reminded of Vader's brutality at the Jedi Temple and Mustafar. No matter. His perversities will strengthen as he assumes the mantle of dark lord once more.

"No." Bearing a look of weary shock, Anakin clenches the hilt of his lightsaber and surveys the bodies draped in varying degrees of death around him. He wills his every fiber to remain still amid the pounding voice that commands him to turn his rage onto the very source of it. "Your darkness is not mine!"

Sidious smiles wickedly, shaking the binders so the clank of durasteel echoes throughout the chamber. "Is it not? Look about you, Lord Vader. _You_ perpetrated this slaughter using the power of the Dark Side. _You_ escaped the binders made only for the Sith's Chosen One. _You_ killed the younglings, and the padawans, and the masters of the Jedi Order. _You_ assassinated the Separatist Council." His voice lowers an octave in sinister provocation, and Anakin can hardly hold his legs steady under the smothering cascade of venom. "You are Darth Vader of the Sith Order. The knowledge and power of my master, Lord Plagueis, made it so. You are my apprentice, and you will serve your master until only death releases you."

Red, Anakin thinks dully, gazing into the twitch of Sidious' hideous eyes. Why did I not notice before I severed the hand of Mace Windu? Why did Padme see the spatter of Tusken blood embellishing my robes on Tatooine, but not the crimson drag in my eyes?

The sapphire blade of his lightsaber vanishes as he caresses the hilt, transfixed. For the first time, his eyes moisten as he relives the moment he and Obi-Wan had gingerly placed the Ilum crystal in his very hilt, then completed it with the Heart of the Guardian's amber blessing.

Until death. So be it.

Jedi. Sith. Son of Suns. Husband. Hero With No Fear. Ani. Slave. Knight. Lord. Father. Padawan. Vader.

Each title whittled a glimmer of his humanity away. He has been a slave in name and in deed, first to Gardulla, then Watto, and finally to the Jedi and the Sith. Now, when it matters most, he cannot innately remember who he was before them all, the moment he emerged, an innocent, sentinent being birthed by a brave woman of Tatooine.

Anakin exhales as he reaches for his com link. The device crackles to life.

"Artoo." His tone is clipped. Efficient chirps and whistles respond immediately.

The slightest of pauses. "Detonate the explosives, Artoo."

Silence; do droids hesitate? Then, more chirps, emitted slowly and with robotic caution.

"Yes, Artoo, I'm still in the Presidential Palace." His slip of terminology is fiercely purposeful.

Finally, Sidious seems to grasp that there is a venerable threat to his capital, his Empire, his existence. He struggles with the binders his former master created – _e tu, my apprentice? _Plagueis' specter seems to taunt – face contorted in a snarl. "You arrogant, cowardly fool! You are as dead as I if you set off those charges. You cannot escape!"

"No," Anakin concurs, voice resigned with numb regret. "I cannot." His eyes hold the Sith lord's as his fingers caress the com link, bringing it to his mouth with a deliberation that is his last masquerade.

_Who are you? Jedi or Sith?_

He cannot fathom who he is. And he cannot trust those who purport to know. If his most obscene actions define him, then he is death. He is chaos and destruction and malleable evil.

He is nothing.

His mouth curls into a wolfish grin that conveys disgust for both himself and the creature he could have emulated. "I hope you don't mind if I forgo the bow, _Chancellor."_

The Sith lord begins to scream, a litany of baseless threats and bargains, but Anakin does not flinch as he again speaks into the com link.

"Detonate the charges, Artoo." His voice softens, cracks. "Do it now, my friend."

He releases his mental shields, opens himself unequivocally to the light, embraces the cries of his children, whispers a final plea for forgiveness.

Before his world explodes, he hears it, a faint cry that slips into his consciousness: "Ani, _don't."_

It's too late.

_Bedtime at Tatooine_

"I know you're exceptional, my boy, but _Force_ – " Padme closes her eyes in the vain hope her ears will follow as her son's wails echo, even louder than before, " – please don't prove all of the baby holos wrong. Walking is supposed to soothe you, not encourage decibels the Gungans would appreciate."

She would've thrown her hands up in defeat by now, but they're full with her squalling boy. Thank the Force Obi-Wan had scooped up Leia for a late viewing of the Tatooine sunset before she joined in her twin's discontent.

Fed an hour ago, no swelling in his tender gums, fresh diaper… _what _was the catalyst for such a tantrum? Usually an amiable baby, Luke's distress seems peculiar, his downy head thrashing in Padme's arms and eyes wide with something that resembles… dread, if such a thing can register in the innocence of a child's face.

"Oh, sweetheart," his mother murmurs, "are we into the scary-things-under-the-bed phase already? I'm not sure I'm ready for that."

They've circled the room several times now, and Luke's misery has not abated. Funny, how he cranes his head back to fix those blue, blue eyes expectantly on the ceiling as if searching for something only he can ascertain.

"No luck with settling young Luke?" the Jedi master appears in the small bedroom the twins share, Leia nestled in his arms.

As if in answer, the boy emits a cry with surprising gusto even as Padme rocks, whispers and bounces him using every technique she's honed during the past year. A galaxy-wide trade conflict, she can handle. Refugee squabbles? Putty in her capable hands. But her wildly squabbling toddler?

"Do you have any of that horrible whiskey from the cantina left, Obi-Wan? After I dab a bit on his gums, maybe the rest can soothe _my_ misery!"

Now Leia's squirming, too. Noisily. The sounds coming from her are similar in tone to Padme's, low and pacifying, but the adults have no knowledge of what Leia's babbles mean. Nonetheless, his sister's warbles pique Luke's interest. After a bit of infant banter, the boy seems to take comfort, his cries lessening. Then, they reach stubby fingers toward each other as their language softens into something… different.

Her little ones are humming, Padme realizes. A simple, unpolished melody she often hears after she leaves them drowsy in their cribs at bedtime, tiny fingers stretched to the stars. Sometimes, she'll hear coos that blend into this refrain; always the same little song, clumsy and childlike, but oddly peaceful.

"What in the galaxy…" Padme starts, bemused, but her question evaporates as the three others in the room suddenly gasp in unison. The abrupt conclusion of the twins' song doesn't even register, because in an instant, her children are bellowing, eyes scrunched and hands clenched into fists, a sudden alarm enveloping them.

That's when Padme feels it, as literally as if it permeates her very cells. The most apprehensive chill streaks down her body, slices through the sweltering heat of Tatooine and nearly rattles her bones.

She turns to Obi-Wan, struggles to contain her confusion as her children howl against an unseen terror. The Jedi master's hold on Leia hasn't tightened, but his slate eyes sharpen in supreme concentration. Calm, center, focus, Obi-Wan directs himself, channeling his energy into a single entity seeking guidance within the Force.

When his mouth opens, it forms a single word: _"Anakin."_

_Finis. For now. _

_This one made my keyboard messy. Talk about blood, sweat and tears going into a chapter. I had this crazy idea that I hadn't seen anywhere else __**cough, Anakin being a Chosen One of the Sith, cough**__ and I just had to go with it. That doesn't necessarily mean it's __true__, because we all know Sidious' truth is from a certain point of view, now, don't we? _

_And, since I'm all bothered by the way I've turned my original plan on its ear, I'm interested to see how this goes over with those who have been incredibly kind enough to comment, favorite and follow this story. It started out as this little one-shot wonder and has become a mini-obsession. Thanks to all! :)_


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks again to all who have taken time to give this a look and post their feedback: WildHorseFantasy, Zireael07, Eldar-Melda, Queen Naberrie, angie, JACarter, saberstorm and Guest, you all inspire me to keep putting fingers to the keyboard. _

_You'll find a familiar character in unfamiliar form here – a ten-year-old Han Solo, drummed into action. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and the next, which I'm also posting just because I can. What can I say? I was on a roll and went with it. _

_Imperial Palace in Imperial City_

_Post-explosion_

"Hey!"

It's the second time a crackle of electricity singes his behind, and ten-year-old Han Solo needs a distraction like he needs a blaster shot in the head.

Which he might just get, any second now.

What with the legions of Stormtroopers swarming the hangar, like he needs to worry about the frantic astromech droid chirping wildly as it rolls practically on the Corellian boy's heels.

"I mean it, short stuff, don't fry me again, okay?" Solo phrases it as a question, but it plays like a command from the pre-teen, whose disposition could be succinctly described as street smart. Or smart-assed, depending who was asked. "I can't _believe _we're out in the middle of this – " he makes an exasperated gesture into the calamity of Imperial troops, overhead alarms and clatter of weaponry that surrounds them " – instead of waiting for your boss-man in the _Falcon_. This is the one time I wouldn't mind missing the party instead of jumping right into it! "

Artoo lets loose a string of excitable trills and finishes with a few emphatic beeps without changing his route, which is pretty much straight into the fray.

The soot-haired boy scurries ahead of the droid as they find themselves filing into a series of rooms off the hangar. Somehow, they've eluded detection, but Solo's been in enough scrapes to know that a scamp and a squat droid don't merit much notice during a full-scale emergency, of which this has all the telltale signs. "Gotta hand it to your boss-man; those fireworks really got their attention."

Artoo's electro-whine doesn't necessarily approve. The droid's dome swivels about, oblivious to the chaos that makes Solo jumpier by the second, trying to hone in on the com link Anakin carries. Sooner or later, someone will question their business in the heart of Imperial Palace, and Solo will have to come up with a whopper of an answer to explain it.

No problem. Despite his youth, the boy can spin the bantha poodoo with the best of 'em.

How naïve of him to think these little adventures would stop when the tall guy with the sorrowful eyes had seized his hand in the seedy Corellian tavern a few months earlier.

Solo had made him for a Jedi at once – caught a glint of the lightsaber hilt under the man's tunic – and normally wouldn't have bothered trying to pick his belt. Everyone knew the whole no-possessions thing, so what was the point of trying to foist credits the imposing Jedi likely didn't have?

Then again, the man had acquired his mentor's prized starship, the vaunted _Millennium Falcon,_ within minutes of pulling up a barstool, so opportunistic swindler that he was, Solo thought he'd give it a go. Even if he got caught, a Jedi wouldn't likely retaliate with physical violence. Han could suffer through the blah-la-la lecture.

Which came quickly after the Jedi had caught his hand before it got anywhere near the spiffy utility belt with a sly, hypnotizing, "You don't want to take things that don't belong to you."

Snatching back his hand with a suddenly-fuzzy brain, Solo had nonetheless replied, "You would if you hadn't eaten in three days. My guardian says I eat too much."

At that, the Jedi had cracked a smile laced with surprise. The young one possessed a strong countenance if Anakin's mild Force-suggestion hadn't entirely swayed him. Anakin took in his unevenly cropped hair, soil-smudged hands and tattered clothing. The boy _was_ a bit scrawny.

"Is that so? My masters used to say I ate like a bantha, too. Obi-Wan would grumble, but he always gave me seconds." Anakin had extended his palm to the boy and weathered a jolt when the young one's sapphire eyes gazed at him with earnest trust. "My name is Ani. You are?"

The boy had grasped Anakin's hand with the clumsy innocence of a child, albeit a savvy one. "Han Solo. I'm ten. This is my home planet, in case you need someone to show you around, or make connections, or… whatever." That seemed to imply that the youth knew more about the Corellian underworld than he should.

The Jedi's eyes crinkled when he smiled, Solo had noted, but there was little spark in their blue depths. "Glad to meet you, Han. Excuse me." The towering man known as Ani gestured to the rough-and-tumble barkeeper whose favorite pastime was treating Han as if he didn't exist. "My young friend here hasn't eaten in some time. You will be happy to contribute to his continued good health with a hot meal. How about some spiceloaf, stewfruit and – " he turned to the boy " – do you like that potato rice dish they serve in some of the – "

"Gods, no!" the boy responded immediately, a grimace twisting his mouth. The barkeep was suddenly at his service? This could be fun, he caught himself thinking, but quickly banished the notion when the Jedi tapped a finger to his arm in subtle disapproval. _Jedi. _"Can I have potato sticks instead? And an air cake?"

"Good idea, Han," Anakin agreed. "Add two air cakes, please, and I'll have a caf, and bring some blue milk for the boy, if you have it." The barkeep gave a displeased grunt before loping into the kitchen.

Han appraised the older man with world-weary eyes. He'd seen his share of riffraff and outright criminals in this establishment on the fringes of his native Corellia. Even at his tender age, he knew this Jedi was twice as dangerous, despite his refined ways.

"Can I ask you something?" A mug filled to the brim with caf appeared before Anakin, who sipped at it thoughtfully, then nodded. Emboldened, the Corellian boy traced invisible patterns on the counter before blurting in a whisper, "Am I in trouble, sitting here with you? I _know_ who you are." His eyes darted toward Anakin's hip and the concealed lightsaber. "Jedi, I mean. You're an outlaw now, right? That Emperor guy, Palpa-whooz-its, or Sid-a-whatever, he said the Jedi were criminals and he killed a bunch of 'em." He nearly clamped his mouth shut at the flicker of discomfort that shadowed Anakin's features, but plunged on. "I'm not gonna rat you out or anything. I mean, I'm kinda an outlaw, too."

A steaming plate heaped with what Anakin assumed were the boy's favorite foods, from the way he launched his fork into them, halted his questions.

"Where are your parents, young one?" Anakin had asked when Solo's chewing slowed enough for him to eat and converse without compromising his manners.

The boy had fidgeted on his barstool, a frown crossing his face. He'd become accustomed to answering the question, wanted those who asked to assume it wasn't bothersome.

"Dunno." A shrug meant to be careless, but Anakin sensed a lingering stab of loss. "Haven't seen 'em in a few years."

"You're on your own, then?" The Jedi's eyes softened.

Half of the boy's air cake was gone, and his pace had slowed only a bit. Anakin pushed his own dessert under Han's nose, recalling meals that his mother, somehow, had stretched into multiple days.

"My guardian takes care of me most of the time," Solo answered carefully, mindful that the last time he'd alluded to Garris Shrike's lack of attention to his basic needs, he'd nursed a swollen jaw that accentuated his crooked grin.

Anakin knew what the phrase meant. Gardulla's fists had initiated lessons in what he could disclose about his master; Watto had reinforced them. "You are indebted to this Garris Shrike," he stated, tapping the glass of blue milk. Solo immediately drained half in a famished gulp.

The boy finally pushed back from the counter, calloused hands resting on his stomach. When was the last time he'd actually felt full? Now he needed a nap, but Shrike would likely have him prowling the streets for more marks as soon as the Jedi departed. "Guess that's what you call it. More like my choices are zero and none."

The Jedi's lips curled slightly, and Solo would've liked to pick his brain for the interesting thoughts that fired. "Then perhaps I found this tavern not only for my benefit, but also for yours. I certainly haven't gotten any richer; spent my last credits on this _Millennium Falcon_ your guardian assures me is the fastest freighter in the galaxy." Anakin held the secretive grin until his caf had been drained and he was satisfied his young companion's stomach would no longer ache for sustenance.

"Oh, he's not lying about that. It really _moves_." The boy was looking curiously at Anakin again. "If you don't have any more credits, how are you gonna pay for my food?"

It wasn't difficult to return the boy's amused smirk. "We, young one, are going to help with dishes and any other odd jobs they have for us back in the kitchen. My master would say an honest day's work is food for the soul."

Solo's joviality faded. "Wouldn't it be a lot easier to do that mind-trick thing again? I mean, dishes? I've _seen _what's in that kitchen."

This is what it could be like, Anakin had realized with a tremor that evoked a prickling of tears, when my son is a headstrong ten-year-old. The firm hand, the negotiation, the runaway pride.

Did Obi-Wan feel like this, too? Anakin had made his master proud, on occasion. Obi-Wan affirmed it, once, with the warmest smile under that russet beard, right before…

Anakin steadied his hand before placing it on the boy's shoulder. "An honest day's work is food for the soul, Han."

When both burst into laughter at the absurdity, Anakin amended with a chuckle, "It'll keep the barkeep and his rowdy-looking friends off our backs, too."

Grabbing their plates on the way, they'd trudged to the kitchen, where the Solo boy tackled mountains of grubby dishes without dissent. By the time they'd finished, Anakin had "persuaded" Garris Shrike that the orphaned Corellian would be much better off assisting with Ani's venture, which would eventually take the two to Tatooine, Force willing.

Anakin had made absolutely certain to tell Han that no money had exchanged hands. He would not shatter another blue-eyed boy's innocence with the notion that his freedom had been acquired through a business transaction.

"Don't know why I even told you any of that," Solo was muttering as he blindly follows Artoo from one chamber to another. As they venture deeper into the core of the capital – a dark, creepy place even without all the Imps and their blasters running around – the explosive aftermath becomes more apparent. Acrid smoke billows in rising plumes from landmarks that had obviously held charges, and pockets of crumpled durasteel dot a carpet of fragments, both large and micro, from shattered glass windows. The air, as stale and foreboding as Imperial City itself, fairly reeks of disaster.

Kriffin' great, Solo grouses. And here I am, playing follow the crazy astromech.

"He should be looking for us," the boy theorizes, narrowing his eyes to search through hanging puffs of smoke. "Why isn't Ani looking for us?"

The answer comes scant minutes later, when Solo spots the crude, crimson outline of what appears to have been a bleeding Jedi amid a crater of twisted debris. A smear that tapers into a gruesome stripe is peppered with bloody boot prints, leading the duo to an out-of-the-way storage closet. "Put a lid on it, short stuff!" Solo hisses as Artoo rushes to open the door, chirping with anticipation.

"Oh… Gods." It's worse than he could have imagined. Anakin is sprawled on the floor, three limbs splayed; one arm weakly clutches a blossomed stain in his mid-section. The circumference is so large that Solo can't tell whether the wound originates in his chest or his abdomen. Solo whips off his tunic – one Anakin's own, altered to fit the boy – and presses it to the red, taking in lacerations, burns and other wounds not covered by sooty residue. "Watch the door, Artoo," he yelps as desperation claws at him. The Jedi isn't even conscious, his cheeks a grey pallor that matches some of the ashes clinging to his clothes. Kriff, one of his boots is torn nearly off, and he's missing snatches of clothing everywhere. Even his hair is littered with ruin. Fine shards of glass abrade Solo's own hands as he searches for the source of bloody streaks in Anakin's honey-colored curls.

Solo wishes for a lot of things at that moment: a decent med kit, a blaster modified to Shrike's shady preferences, and the words to that oddly-soothing Jedi chant Anakin had repeated, trancelike, as they'd neared this Force-forsaken place. I'm only a kid! he thinks, weighing the option of simply dropping next to the Jedi and accepting his unfortunate fate.

His friend Ani had the choice of strolling out of that Corellian tavern a few months ago with only the _Falcon_ to show for the experience. Instead, he'd sweet-talked Shrike and, Solo freely admits, made an orphaned imp feel like a genuine person for the first time in standard years.

Solo will never be able to recount how he and Artoo somehow carried the strapping Jedi back to the _Millennium Falcon_ without getting them caught. Their fortune is fleeting, of course, and he's soon scrabbling to get the freighter into space as what seems like the bulk of the Imperial fleet rains a furious attack on the starship.

He doesn't have time to savor their miraculous escape as the iffy hyperdrive finally activates. Back in the makeshift med room, Ani's shallow breaths seem to hitch even further, color draining until he's so pale that Solo can't fathom he'd ever been bronzed by dual suns.

"Fast, Artoo – the com link under the floor panel." Ani hadn't mentioned it, but Shrike's methodical takeoff prep had always included a thorough check of every nook of the _Falcon_. Solo had found the device just before they'd left Corellia.

He'd wondered who would be at the other end, if it ever came to that.

"Anybody out there? Please? I have a Jedi with me; name's Ani and he's hurt bad, _real _bad! I can fly the ship to a med center, only I think we might be in trouble now and… he's all _bloody_ and his head looks bad and he hasn't moved, and, and, and… I'm a good pilot but I'm only_ ten_!"

When a low, stately voice responds across the stars, somehow, Han Solo knows it will be all right.

"Easy now, young one. You've done well to get this far. Can you relay your coordinates so I can get an idea where you are?"

Solo rattles off the numbers with a drained sigh of relief. Within minutes, Anakin's color improves and his eyes flutter, even if they remain closed. He responds faintly to Artoo's soft whistles, his head turning slightly toward the familiar.

The com link crackles again.

"Anakin should be resting better now. Don't worry." There's a muffled sound – is that a woman's cry? "My name is Ben Kenobi. Listen well and we'll get you both safely home."

_Finis. _

_Proceed to Ani/Padme goodness in chapter 8, if that's your kind of thing. _


	8. Interlude

_It occurred to me that I intended this fic to be Ani/Padme-centric and they've barely made an appearance together. Now seems a good time for Ani to remember something precious to live for… Spoiler: Ani/Padme being all romantic, straight ahead. _

**_Warning (thanks for the tip, Rauikage): This chapter is quite... sensual. Not explicit, but a T rating is warranted. I'm also advised that it qualifies in the "lime" category. Hide the kiddies' eyes or run for the hills, your choice. But you've been informed. _**

It penetrates him somehow, even in this mystical realm between light and dark. A voice that once promised everything he'd ever wanted, lost too soon and never fully mourned.

"Hold on, Ani," Qui-Gon Jinn enlists urgently, but his initial words are swallowed by waves of agony that swell, recede, rise again. It doesn't even hurt as much as it destroys him, piece by agonizing piece.

"Remember what makes you whole, Ani, and don't let go. You will return to them. Soon, Ani. Soon…"

_Lake Country, Naboo_

_Two years after the Battle of Geonosis_

His wife sniggers in a most un-senator-like fashion as she eyes him in head-to-toe Jedi regalia. Normally, the sight elicits the utmost pride in her husband; the Hero With No Fear's accomplishments are, of course, legendary.

Other, quite formidable _skills_ graced only in the sanctuary of private chambers are valued, as well. However, after several moments of diligent maneuvering, she's managed to dispense him only of the boots that weigh more than her starship and, since his cerulean eyes have narrowed with mischief and a certain… _intent_… well, there just isn't a way to disrobe him quick enough.

It's never quick enough.

She settles for a strategy he'll surely appreciate, attacking the situation with both hands. His lightsaber goes with a swift flick. "Careful with that, love," he smirks, as the weapon that is his life rests conspicuously close to a similarly shaped part of him that will never be so prominently on display.

His utility belt lands on top of his left boot. The lacings at the collar of his shirt are child's play, thank the Force, but there's still far too much fabric and too little skin to show for her efforts.

She huffs in a near-tantrum, stifles an unruly stomp of her foot. "Blast, Ani, isn't there a way to make this less… cumbersome?"

He grins with boyish mischief, but the manner in which the fingers of his flesh-hand slide sensuously from her lower lip, to the divide between her breasts – oh, _oh,_ that little path always elicits a gasp she tries to conceal, damn that smug curl of his lips – is parsecs from adolescent.

Padme Amidala, skilled from years of political tactics and maneuvering, is a patient woman. If the senator from Naboo was charged with unraveling the layers of Anakin Skywalker's blastedly-complex Jedi garb, she would handle the task with the same deliberation she shows the matter of diplomacy: patience, neutrality, execution.

The woman she becomes in their bedchamber, well… nerves practically sizzle at the sight of him in this state of tousled semi-undress. Padme _Skywalker_ is light years from patient and she _must _have him, open and bare and aching for her as desperately as she hungers for him. Her hands seem too small for this task as they scrabble about his broad chest – heaving lightly in amusement, even as he inflames her further with barely-there brushes of those succulent lips to her earlobe, neck, shoulder without a bit of garment resistance and unencumbers the intricate design of her hair with ease. He grins a bit more as his fingers separate the curls. Oh, those nimble fingers…

"I'm glad you're having an easier time of this," she grits as his mouth settles on her collarbone, dragging a lazy string of moist kisses as her tribulations continue.

Head buried in her flesh, she feels his smile, knows he has the best view of the bumps that have suddenly appeared in each scrap of flesh branded by his lips. "Yes, you certainly _are_," he agrees in the husky baritone, unleashing a pronounced blush that crawls from her neck toward her toes. "My apologies that the Order didn't foresee this type of… _predicament_… when selecting proper attire, _Senator_."

"Predicament," she parrots, a bit of ire laced in her tone. Gods, at this point she'll be finished before …, and that won't do _at all._ "You won't be so smug when I call Threepio to assist me in separating you from your robes, Knight Skywalker."

If the thought of the protocol droid becoming his wife's accomplice in foreplay ruffles the Hero With No Fear, he doesn't let on. Anakin's too occupied with undressing Padme at the moment, fingers deftly sliding dainty straps of her robe from her shoulders, gliding the fabric smoothly down her stomach and hips with deliberation.

"What makes you think I didn't program this very situation in his operating system?" Anakin teases, lips whispering down her stomach. Just when did he entirely divest her of her silken Nabooian gown? An amused rumble in his throat quickens her heartbeat as he halts his efforts just north of her daringly-cut undergarment. "I say we call him in to see how he handles it."

"Ani!" Just then, she somehow deciphers the mystery of his damnable robe and hastily lifts it over his head, the rest of his clothing following in rapid succession.

Palms, lips, fingers settle where they should be, and the "predicament" is blissfully resolved.

_Lake Country, Naboo_

_An hour later_

"You look beautiful, love."

Anakin means it, even if her curls spring wildly, her smudged makeup yields a slightly demented look and the stubble he'd never been able to grow before has left mild abrasions on her neck.

He grins, remembering. At his sincere compliment, his wife actually snorts. "Ha! I look dreadful, and my family is due here in – " she scrambles to check the chrono on the dresser " – less than a standard hour!"

Padme's frowning as she uses her fingers as an ineffective comb, pacing about their bedchamber in nervy anticipation. He sighs. She always gets ancy before her family arrives, as he gets increasingly crabby.

"Are you going to get up, Ani? You have to get up so I can make the bed and then you have to jump in the 'fresher. Gods, this room smells like we… well, we _did_, but I certainly don't want my parents to get a whiff of it!"

He really could recline here all day and watch her charmingly go to pieces, but she's already gone from brainstorming to implementation.

"Where did you throw your clothes, Ani?" His mild correction of exactly _who_ tossed his clothes to wherever they've landed is quickly cut off. "I've never seen anyone lose their pants with such frequency." Don't go there, he tells himself, content to let her flounder a bit more.

She's extremely focused on locating his breeches, gives a triumphant yelp when she spots them near the door. "There they are!" Pause. Glare. "Aren't you going to get them?"

"Couldn't get my pants off quick enough before and now this," he jests dryly, without moving an inch from the bed. "Vascillating like a true politician, Obi-Wan would say." His bare legs stretch so languidly across her bedspread that his feet dangle from the bottom edge.

"Bringing Obi-Wan into this?" she retorts. "I'm sure he'd have a rather interesting opinion regarding your current state of undress in my bedchamber, _padawan_." She pinches his big toe, hard, as his breeches land on his face with impressive accuracy.

"You're breathtaking when you're annoyed, love," he informs, peeking through his pants as she hurries to dress, snatches of bare skin enticing him anew. A few inches closer and she'll be his again… maybe struggle a bit under the covers, but his creative means of _persuasion_ always seem to pacify her.

It's definitely not a method of appeasement gleaned from the Great Negotiator, but it's highly effective.

At least when his wife isn't so stubbornly determined to resist.

"Then I must be quite _devastating_ now. Please, Ani! You know how I get when my family is coming. By the Gods I love them, but my mother will harp about my lack of a social life and Sola will bring a list of 'eligible candidates' and they'll slowly drive me mad. The entire time, all I'll want to do is lock myself up in this very room with my devastatingly handsome Jedi husband – "

He's almost got one leg in his breeches when she sweeps across the room and pushes him back onto their bed. Well, that was a little rougher than intended, but not – she views an appreciative smile blossom on his face – entirely unwanted.

"Quite indecisive for the distinguished senator from Naboo," he murmurs, settling back into the dent in his pillow. "This isn't even a question of planetary security or national unrest." He leans forward, tongue tracing a delicious path from her earlobe toward her shoulder. It could take awhile for him to get there, though. The thought elicits a sultry tremble. "I'll ask again, milady: pants on or off?"

On. She should just say it and be done, but she's missed every little treasure of these moments, and he's been gone for months. She should push herself away from him and she should most definitely get the shower running because the scent that clings to them both at the moment would make her mother blush with utter shock.

For once, the senator from Naboo does exactly what she wants, and to the seven hells of Corellia with everyone else. Granting her husband a wicked little grin that puts him exactly where she wants him, Padme Amidala Skywalker whispers, "Definitely _off_," and proceeds to show him just how she came to that answer.

_Finis. _


	9. Chapter 9

_To those who have read, commented, advised, followed and favorite-d, __**thank you.**__ That means you, __**Raiukage,**__**Queen Yoda,**__**Queen Naberrie, SphinxScribe**__ and others. And I will get to reading your story, Queen Yoda, in due time. The snippets I've seen are terrific!_

_Now off we go…_

_Ani's not even in Tatooine yet, and already he's causing a ruckus. Please read, enjoy and be sure to let me know what you think of it all. _

_Chapter 9_

"He can _not_ stay here, Obi-Wan!"

The normally cerebral senator from Naboo, hands clenched when they're not gesturing nervously, is as adamant as the Jedi master has ever seen her. Not even the most heated arguments during the Clone Wars provoked such inflexibility.

Which, he realizes, means she's as frightened as she's ever been.

Time in the harsh conditions of Tatooine has changed Padme. In the past, Obi-Wan had not considered her an entitled politician, but he knew the young woman enjoyed a privileged, if not rigid lifestyle within the Galactic Senate.

The barren desert, where none of the refugee treaties or trade agreements she'd labored to secure have made a bit of difference, is a foreign entity where the senator has often felt out of place. Once elaborate in her style of dress, she now cares not of the colors of her tunics or the cuts of her dresses, as long as they minimize the planet's scorching heat. Her skin has toughened from the permanence of clinging sand and darkened from the blistering suns.

Her heart has darkened, too, he thinks.

"I can't believe I even have to make this argument," Padme huffs and busies herself by folding a gritty pile of clothing, little smocks and blankets. "I just washed these. Gods, this sand _does _get everywhere!"

Wisely, he does not inform her that she sounds like someone close to them both.

"You know there is no other choice, Padme," he says softly, steadfast calm to temper her agitation. "The healing trance seems to be holding, but I can't get a true sense of his injuries. His Force-signature is weak; he'll need a safe place to recover."

Padme whirls, anger ignited amid the hazy sunrise of Tatooine. After the young Solo boy's distress call, neither had bothered to feign sleep, and the twins had whimpered throughout the night. "A _safe_ place? How safe will we be when Sidious sends troops here to track him down? You saw the holonet, Obi-Wan."

Indeed, they both had. If not for the seriousness of the topic, Obi-Wan would have found the Empire-controlled holocasts laughable: "Earlier today, Former Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker, thought dead after a failed plot to overthrow the Galactic Senate more than a standard year ago, perpetrated an immoral, traitorous and cowardly attack on Imperial Center. Due to this single-handed act of treason, as well as his affiliation to the turncoat Jedi Order, Skywalker has been declared an enemy of the Empire; the amount of credits offered for his capture are rumored to be high."

Nice touch, adding the credits bit, Obi-Wan observes ruefully. Now citizens throughout the galaxy will be on Anakin's tail, as well.

"We don't know what really happened in Coruscant," he notes with a stroke of his beard. "The truth has little resemblance to the Empire's official story, no doubt."

Padme paces the cramped dwelling, steps small and quick in time with her flurry of thoughts. "The _truth_ is that Anakin is now wanted across the galaxy and you've rolled out the red carpet to him." Through a window smudged with grime, she views the violet-tinged sunrise, remembers handing Anakin strip after strip of cloth as he'd prepared his mother's corpse to be forever buried in sand. Then cradled him protectively as he'd succumbed to tears of shamed anguish.

She wraps her arms around herself without thinking, fingers digging into her own skin. "I will not risk my children because you have a desire to alleviate your guilt, Obi-Wan."

The Jedi master's own temper flares; he strides snappishly opposite the politician, as if the room isn't expansive enough to hold his vexation. "_My_ guilt, Senator? All these months, I've assumed there is enough guilt for us all – Anakin, the Jedi, his clandestine _wife_." His eyes glitter with flinty purpose. "Do you want him dead so badly that you cannot bring yourself to shelter him, even with his injuries? He could be near death!"

"Of course not!" Padme answers vehemently, her exclamation biting in the desert air. "But as I remember it, the last time the three of us set foot on the same ground, my children and I were nearly the casualties of your foolishness!"

"_My_ foolishness?" he shoots back, the muscles of his neck cording with anger that will not be quelled by normal meditation. "_Anakin_ turned his back on the Jedi and the democracy we all fought so diligently to preserve! The _Chosen One_ killed his own kind without mercy or remorse, _not_ me. He nearly killed you, or does _love_ – " he sniffs bitterly with a severe gesture toward the sky " – serve as amnesia of convenience, milady?"

The final phrase spits viciously from his mouth with the same burning intensity of a lightsaber thrust. How long since he's afforded himself these emotions of incendiary betrayal? _Release your anger,_ he orders, reaching for his calm, his center.

But this time, he cannot.

Each combatant retreats into silence, allowing the volatility to fade. Padme's next carefully-chosen words drain his indignant pride while baring an emotion he's kept tightly concealed. "You went to Mustafar to kill him, Obi-Wan. We both know Anakin was right about that." Her open palm cups her throat, only to dart away. "I can't defend what he did, but I can understand that he was fueled with deceit from both Sidious _and_ the Jedi, as well as his own blinding fear."

Padme realizes with a diplomat's expertise that nothing good will be accomplished with aggravation, but she cannot suppress the resentment that creeps into her tone. "What was he to think when you emerged from my ship, Obi-Wan? That you were there to _negotiate_ him back to the light?"

Why does he feel so compelled to defend himself? "I was sent to abolish Darth Vader, as I had abolished the evil that was Count Dooku and Darth Maul before him," Obi-Wan states firmly.

"Vader and Anakin are the same," Padme insists, her skills of debate reviving after months of dormancy. "It's pure semantics which name you chose to call him. In blood, and in _brotherhood_, he was Anakin, and you well knew that when you boarded my ship."

Memories of Mustafar are vivid in Obi-Wan's mind, waking nightmares he cannot exile even with diligent meditation. He can still sense the suffocating heat, the demented fire in Anakin's eyes, all traces of brilliant blue stolen.

"Why are you defending him?" Obi-Wan grits pointedly as a faint squeal echoes from the twins' room. "You don't even _want_ him here."

"I _do_ want him here!" Another whimper joins the first as Luke and Leia announce their wakefulness, but Padme does not move. "I want my husband. I want Luke and Leia to have their father," she insists, her heart as desolate as the landscape on the reverse side of the synstone walls. "I want _Anakin,_ but I have no idea who the man coming here will be!"

Obi-Wan hangs his head, kicking half-heartedly at the dusty floor. He wants Anakin, too, the brother who'd made him feel older sometimes, had him shaking his head at his padawan's brashness, but always left Obi-Wan vibrating with _life_. Anakin's need had provided Obi-Wan's purpose after his master's death, their bond forming with the rasp of Qui-Gon's final breath.

Their _attachment_ – Obi-Wan can admit that now – has twisted and frayed, but it has never entirely detached. Today, it pulses with a vibrancy that Obi-Wan can neither discount nor embrace, so jumbled are his thoughts.

A boisterous rustle from the twins' room is followed by suspicious clatter. Padme edges toward the man she'd entrusted to bring her husband home during three miserably-long years of Clone Wars, although Obi-Wan hadn't known her motivations then.

"I think there are things we all would change about the past, if we could," she begins gently, an attempt to reconcile the discord. "Having Anakin with us again… it frightens me to my very core, Obi-Wan. I know he has much to answer for. So do I."

She goes to her children, final words passing quietly over her shoulder.

"As do you, Obi-Wan."

x. x. x.

x. x. x. x. x.

Of all the scenarios Obi-Wan has imagined for Anakin's return to his home planet, the last in his catalog would be the one that confronts him.

You need a haircut, Obi-Wan thinks dully, taking in a riot of unruly blond locks that probably pass Anakin's shoulders when not scorched short or tangled with blood, dried and fresh. Amid a camouflage of blossomed abrasions, ashy residue and ugly bruises, Anakin's face is slack, respirations shallow.

He is still, eerily so for a man who pulses with boundless energy from the moment he laces his boots.

Thank the Force for healing trances, because for the life of him, Obi-Wan can't imagine how the grievously-injured man before him isn't dead. Despite this, he almost expects the side of Anakin's cracked mouth to twitch upward in a familiar smirk.

He also halfway expects a full garrison of Imperial troops to drop out of the sky any minute, but he guesses he'll deal with that catastrophe when it comes.

At the moment, he's too preoccupied with keeping Anakin alive and Padme from going completely to pieces.

She's been disintegrating since the moment he and the exhausted Solo boy carried Anakin's stretcher into the living area. As Obi-Wan exposes Anakin's injuries, the layers of Padme's defenses strip away, one by one, until she's so threadbare that she gasps with no sound, hands flying to her mouth. As if Anakin's battered body is a mirror to her fractured heart, and she can no longer bear the entirety.

"Look through his clothes," Obi-Wan directs softly, indicating a few items he's managed to peel from Anakin with as much care as he would handling the twins when they've drenched themselves with blue milk. That his former padawan hasn't once recoiled, groaned or outright sputtered in protest greatly concerns him. "Maybe there's something that will tell us how he was injured. Artoo?" The little droid rolls toward Obi-Wan, whistling cooperatively as Threepio hovers to translate.

"Tell me what happened at Imperial Palace, please. Do you know how Anakin was injured?"

Artoo emits a litany of whistles, chirps and beeps.

"Artoo said the injuries were most likely caused when a multitude of high-grade explosives were detonated in close proximity to Master Anakin," Threepio explains. Padme listens, horrified, as her hands slide through clothes sticky with her husband's blood.

Obi-Wan absorbs the information, re-checks Anakin's vital signs with increased attention to his ravaged chest. "Who detonated the explosives?" More noises of explanation combine with a flicker of lights on Artoo's dome.

"Are you quite certain, Artoo?" Threepio questions, expression as incredulous as a protocol droid can muster. "I suggest that you examine your memory again. Your circuits may have been interrupted in the explosions."

Artoo's insistence heightens. His language comes faster, and the droid literally shakes from side to side, his dome circling emphatically.

Threepio elicits a mechanical scowl at his droid companion. "Well, I hope you're sure about this, Artoo, because it seems completely illogical to me. Master Kenobi, Artoo said that Master Anakin initiated an attack on Imperial Center and Emperor Palpatine. Master Anakin set a large number of high-grade explosives throughout Imperial Palace and insisted that Artoo detonate the charges even after it was confirmed that he was still inside the facility. Artoo is quite certain regarding the sequence of events."

Obi-Wan continues to evaluate Anakin's extensive injuries, fingers deft with intent focus. After Threepio finishes his translation, however, Padme notices that the Jedi master's shoulders sag, head bowing as he brushes Anakin's forehead with his trembling hand.

"Did Anakin have any backup other than a droid and a boy?"

There is a single beep. "None, other than Artoo and Master Han Solo," Threepio confirms.

Obi-Wan gingerly applies a clean dressing to a hideously-large crater in Anakin's torso, notes that his padawan's sinewy frame has withered. At once, the adrenaline that has carried him through the last day drains, leaving a whirlwind of tumultuous emotions. "Why?" he asks no one in particular, turning finally from Anakin's wounds. "Blast it, Artoo, why would he even _attempt_ something as reckless and foolhardy and _suicidal _as that?"

Before the droid can respond, an unfamiliar voice chimes from the corner of the room. "I know why."

Obi-Wan studies the ten-year-old boy for a few seconds. He'd flown a freighter out of an enemy zone with peerless calm while under Imperial attack, landed the vessel without incident and even acquired a quick buyer within minutes of landing in Mos Espa to negate Imperial detection.

He reminds Obi-Wan a little of someone.

"Han, is it? Please, young one, tell us what you know."

The boy nibbles on his bottom lip, shifts his weight from one boot to the other. Used to blending in with the shadowy figures of the Corellian underworld, Solo finds the spotlight unnerving.

"Um, I only know this because I heard Ani talking to his friend a few days before we set off for Corus—er, Imperial Center. His friend was worried, but Ani said if everything went right, we'd be in Tatooine in a few days."

"Does the friend have a name?" Obi-Wan inquires.

"Kisser?" the boy guesses, scrunching his mouth in concentration. "Ani said they went way back so he could trust him. He helped Ani before."

Images of a dark-skinned sidekick with a bowl of black hair come to Padme. "Ani had a friend in Mos Espa named Kitster… Banai, I think. They were quite close, used to talk of coming back to Tatooine and freeing the slave children once they'd made their way in the galaxy."

Obi-Wan nods, vaguely recalling such a sprite, but the pieces of the puzzle aren't connecting yet. "Kitster Banai was helping Anakin with a plan to attack the Emperor? Somehow, that doesn't – "

"No, no," the boy interjects quickly, "Kitster didn't know about that. He helped Ani with the kids."

"Kids?" Padme croaks, thoughts jumping to her offspring in the next room. She moves toward Anakin, tattered tunic in one hand as the other reaches tentatively but stops inches from the scar on her husband's temple. "Anakin told Kitster about Luke and Leia?"

"Not _his _kids," Solo clarifies. "The other kids, like me." He hesitates, wondering how much of Ani's background he should reveal. "Um, Ani had to hang under the Imperial radar, so he stayed in some real nasty places sometimes. There were lots of kids like me – doing things that aren't exactly legal to keep our guardians happy. I'm just a thief; some of the girls had to do a lot worse."

Padme thinks of the girls she's seen in refugee camps, shell-shocked and devoid of hope. Little girls should have the apple cheeks and childish optimism of her bubbly daughter.

"Go on, Han," she implores as her fingertips catch on a piece of cloth tucked deep in a pocket of Anakin's tunic.

"Sometimes, Ani would mind-trick the masters long enough to get the kids on a transport to Tatooine. He said Kitster was a smuggler, so he'd get them to people who wanted them. Y'know, real families." The wisp of a smile crosses the boy's face. "Ani said he was lucky. He was a slave, but he got to be with his mom. He said she loved him." He lowers his head to stare at granules of sand lining his boots, discomfort evident.

"I was s'posed to get on a transport right before his mission, but Ani wouldn't let me. Something about the crew was fracked; Ani said they bartered like slavers." Solo pauses, a crack in his controlled façade finally appearing. "I could've gone back to my guardian, but Ani said no. Made me promise to stay in the _Falcon_ no matter what. I could have _helped _him! Maybe if he wasn't so worried about me, things wouldn't have gone to bantha flang up there! Maybe – " the timbre of his voice rises a pitch " – that Palpy-guy would be dead and Ani would be free. That's what he wanted, to be _free_."

"You mustn't think that way," Obi-Wan soothes, suppressing an impulse to wrap an arm around the boy and immediately chiding himself. If I'd been as comforting as I was critical of Anakin…

Such thoughts will not be helpful now. "You and Artoo rescued him, and you got him here so we can – "

Obi-Wan's words cease suddenly, an anguished cry from Padme diverting all attention to a tiny scrap of cloth in her hand. She sifts the square through her fingers, thumb passing over a worn pattern of elaborate swirls. The snippet could have been white once, but now it appears grubby and stained. Obi-Wan watches as Padme raises misty eyes to her husband, her free hand descending until it slides delicately into his hair, separating matted blonde tresses while savoring him for the first time since his return. It's such an intimately-charged moment that Obi-Wan considers leaving, but something within the Force stirs, whispers that he should remain.

"It's a piece of my wedding dress," she explains, eyes not leaving Anakin. She strokes the side of his cheek that had faced the lake on Varykino, where the radiance of the Nabooian sun had met sparkling ripples from the lake, illuminating his utter joy. "We got married at dusk on the balcony of Varykino. It was… We were…"

With a jolt of awareness, she freezes; the details of Anakin's deception are undoubtedly not welcome to Obi-Wan.

The Jedi master sighs. Whether it's in reprimand or contemplation, Padme is not certain.

"_I think there are things we all would change about the past, if we could."_

Padme is right, of course. If redemption for any of them is possible, the first steps must begin with responsibility and… change. Obi-Wan reaches his hand toward Anakin's robotic one – melted and deformed as it is – and breathes, feeling a pulse of warmth within the durasteel.

"Knowing how Anakin loves you, Padme – how he's_ always_ loved you – I'm sure it was the happiest day of his life." Obi-Wan smiles, forced but perhaps a bit genuine, as he and Padme will the man who irrevocably connects them to hold fast.

"I… would have liked to see that."

_Finis. Until next time. _


	10. Chapter 10

_He's home! And – for now – Ani's too broken to cause much trouble, but Padme and Obi-Wan's reactions are plenty emotional. _

_Thanks again to those who've followed, favorite-d and, especially, these folks who have given me some wonderful feedback: __**Raiukage (thanks again), Mo Angel, QueenNaberrie, Eldar-Melda**__ and __**Zireael07**__. Feedback is my Force, and you guys have made sure it's with me!_

_Poor Ani. No worries – he's on the mend after this chapter…_

Chapter 10

He's burning again.

It starts on his fingertips, a kindling that transforms his arms into matchsticks brimming with fire. The blaze crawls up his forearms, penetrates his bones and converts them to molten lead.

When it scorches through his chest, ignites his hair in a leisurely climb toward his eyes – he can _see_ the fire's predatory path – his head thrashes in helpless panic. Stop… it won't stop! Why can he not rise from this charcoal-like footing of pellets that bite into his tormented flesh? One arm – the robotic appendage that's never really been a part of _him_ – is the only limb that affirms his mental command, durasteel digits clawing into the shale with methodical purpose.

Why do his three other limbs not respond?

There is a voice, a familiar one. At its first note, he surges forward, optimism renewed. But his master cries something broken and harsh, and the rampaging flames muddle his words in Anakin's ears.

He's never seen such an expression on Obi-Wan. His master is not one by nature to passionately emote, but this is… _terrible. _Obi-Wan's face is devastatingly haunted, etched with misery and shock beyond comprehension.

For _me_, Anakin jolts, and the realization burns deeper than the protracted incineration of his body.

"… _were my brother, Anakin … loved you!" _

He's leaving _now_? As the sacrificial version of Anakin Skywalker writhes in agony and wails in abandoned fury, his master plucks an azure lightsaber from a gradient of smoldering ash and strides away, enveloped in a plume of suffocating ruin.

Obi-Wan is _leaving _him. To this pain, this fate, this excruciating death.

He's burning from the inside now, the flames melting the muscle, sinew, blood that humanize him and melding with his essence to brand him anew. The heat bubbles from his pores, creating an invisible sheen of scorching fire that starts to consume his skin, inch by painstaking inch. He cannot fight, cannot breathe, cannot muster a pebble of genuine hope.

The light cannot save him.

Obi-Wan _will not_ save him.

If there is salvation, it must come from the darkness. Already, it beckons, nourishes, redeems. _Pledge your loyalty to me_, it demands as the acrid steam of his charred flesh smolders in his nostrils, coats his tongue. _By word and deed_, y_ou are already mine. The Dark Side will resurrect you. _

As the pain reaches a crescendo and his blistered mouth opens to answer, something unseen pelts his forehead. Blessedly cool, the substance massages the planes of his face before it morphs into a pleasant shower. Harmless grit replaces the smoke in his throat, bringing an earthy taste that harkens his mother's spicy ahrisa, daring podraces and amulets whittled from japor.

Sand. Dancing around him, encasing him in a cyclone of… tranquility. Granules wash over his oozing flesh and he cringes in expectation of sharpness, but the sand merely tickles and floats before it drapes in a silky blanket over him, creating an aura of peace.

He's always loathed the sand, its grittiness on his fingertips, particles harsh in his mouth.

Still… he hadn't noticed any of that when he'd knelt in front of his mother's gravestone not so long ago, millions of grains pressing conspicuously into his knees, swirling around him, settling in his eyes, mouth.

The only sensations other than the numb finality of death had been the comforting stroke of _her_ fingers on his shoulder, the graze of _her_ palm to his cheek…

"There, that's better." A breathy whisper in his ear that, surprisingly, no longer sizzles. "You're home, Ani. You're safe. You're having some dreams, but it's all right; they're not real."

_You're not real, either_._ You never are. _

Yes, he must be wandering in a spectral world to have that lovely voice so near that its proximity stirs his blood. His eyelids are languidly heavy. Leaving them closed is favorable, but he musters a blink, anyway, a gauzy image forming through a limited slice of vision.

His reward is a beatific smile that he can't help but mimic, a clumsy imitation as the warmth of her spirit envelops him. Warm, not hot. Sanguine. Radiant.

"You're a dream," he mumbles adoringly, a downhearted grin spreading in time with a wince. "You always are." The heaviness of his limbs lessens for a moment as his flesh-hand lifts to fondle a mahogany curl dangled tantalizingly close. He reaches for that one tendril, expecting the apparition to dissipate the instant he wraps her hair around his finger.

She reaches out in the same moment, touch inflaming him without a hint of distress as her palm trails up his flesh-arm in a tender glide. She caresses his forearm, avoiding jagged tears of vivid red and flaked ebony where the burns have obliterated layers of skin. She fears causing him pain, but his breathing stabilizes as her hand smooths toward his shoulder. Her devotions evince a profound shiver that radiates through his body even as they banish the darkness.

It's been achingly long since anyone has touched him with kindness.

"Stay w' me…" he pleads to the hovering angel, husky and fervent in his delirium as his fingers twist in her hair. His body is beginning to stiffen with lances of pain so acute he cannot pinpoint any particular area that hurts more than another. "Love this… dream. Please... Pad_ – Padme_…"

But the mystical sanctuary recedes, sensations vanishing gradually into the sandstorm. He's fading, but the bliss of her fingers on his temple is too entrancing to relinquish.

_Remember what makes you whole, Ani, and don't let go…_

"You stay with _me_, Ani," she implores, but her voice is shimmering away. "Your children are waiting; there's so much of you in them both." She's distant now, and his eyelashes flutter, then rest on his pale, listless face. "Hold onto Luke and Leia. Hold onto _me_. I'll stay if you will."

For another breath, another moment, another night, her husband obeys.

x x

x x x x

Obi-Wan had sent Padme to bed hours ago. He suspects she didn't bother to shed her day clothes and has collapsed in a heap on her bed, a twin curled under each arm.

For three standard days and nights, they've established a tiring routine. Refresh his bandages, cajole a bit of water and gruel down his parched lips, agonize through his wheezing breaths, whisper encouragement, apply cold cloths to his feverish brow, occupy Luke and Leia elsewhere in the house.

Wait. Fret. Slowly go mad.

"… is the only child I've ever seen who holds herself with regal bearing even as she's soiling another diaper," Obi-Wan relates with a mirthless chortle. "Luke is a bit more reserved, but you should see his eyes when I take him on the speeder. They remind me of yours the first time I took you up in a Delta-7. It's not a pod racer, thank the Force. Padme would have my…"

It registers that he's prattling on like a proud father.

"I am _not _their father. I'm more like the eccentric uncle with a shiny sword," he tells an unresponsive Anakin gruffly, then commences to additional prattling. "The other day, Luke was running around like a wild bantha, happy as you please with his bare backside hanging out." Obi-Wan rests his chin in the heel of his hand, as if silently daring Anakin to awaken will make it so.

"Do you remember when you walked into the refectory completely naked to protest the third standard day of grainmush cakes for breakfast? What were you – ten, eleven? I know I gave you extra duties for that, but Master Yoda and I had a good chuckle afterward."

He lets the grin play out, then sobers as he thinks of the cobalt-haired infant who trundles about with nary a care in the galaxy, thank the Force. "Leia doesn't have that sense of mischief, I'm afraid. She's impulsive and downright stubborn sometimes, doesn't back down at all, even if you bribe her with a muja muffin."

The corners of his mouth tweak again. "Unless, of course, she had designs on that muja muffin from the start. In that case, she takes entirely after her mother; usually gets what she wants."

A frown creases his forehead, the strain of a one-sided conversation contributing to a throbbing in his temple. "Well, I guess that really isn't so, is it?"

If Padme gets what she really wants, her husband isn't laying pale and listless in a makeshift infirmary on the home planet he'd just as soon never set a boot on again. Oh, the ruckus that will ensue when Anakin awakens to discover fine crystals of sand lining the corners of his dressings.

If Padme's deepest wishes are realized, Anakin is truly _Anakin_, sans the treacherous impulses that have retreated, for the moment. Obi-Wan isn't naïve enough to trust that the dark instincts have been fully exiled.

"Here's the fun part: I don't have to hope that you'll have a child just like yourself, because you already have _two._ And you're not doing them much good from there. This generation of Skywalkers is a handful, and I'm getting too old to keep you all out of trouble."

Suddenly, the unpredictable winds from the Dune Sea sweep to life, scattering sand in a steady patter against the outer synstone. Just as quickly, Anakin's Force-signature flares, tendrils of kinetic energy pulsing until they coalesce into a single stream of emotion, so powerful that it projects through Obi-Wan's mind as vividly as the glow of the astral moons in this barren place.

_I want to see my children before I die. I want to hold my children. I want my children! _

Burdened by too much guilt, too little slumber and far, far too many demons himself, Obi-Wan Kenobi decides he's had quite enough.

"You are _not_ dying, vape it!" the master rages, springing from his perch at Anakin's bedside so forcefully that his stool tumbles about the floor. "I didn't save you from Master Fee's cooking and Yoda's gimer stick and three completely_ abysmal_ years of Clone Wars to lose you now!"

An impressively long oration of Huttese expletives follows. Now that Obi-Wan's good and annoyed, he has a taste for it. Every iota of his frustration funnels into the obscenities, his enunciation flawless.

And, since Anakin shows no sign of needing the profanities himself, Obi-Wan takes a breath, then lets them fly again, adding bit of emphasis wherever it suits him.

Swearing feels _good._ A dam of his aggression released on the syllables of a few off-color phrases. Anakin would heartily approve – if he would just _open his blasted eyes_ to appreciate Obi-Wan's disregard for his normal state of placating neutrality and stuffy poise.

His former padawan also would likely advise that Obi-Wan's imbuing far too much dignity into crass words that originated from the likes of Watto and Gardulla.

"Nothing to say regarding the fineries of profanity, Anakin? Fine. When you wake up, you can tell me the ones you use when I'm not around," Obi-Wan suggests with a slight grin, but his mini rebellion has left him oddly content.

Even moreso when he feels a nudge on his elbow. Then, Anakin's durasteel digits are scratching his skin and the boy from Tatooine is easing back into daylight.

When Obi-Wan looks upon Anakin's face again, a brilliant glow of sapphire stares back, glassy and unfocused, but present.

Blue. His eyes are _blue_.

Obi-Wan exhales, lightly cradling Anakin's neck in his hand. When he squeezes affectionately, the gesture feels natural. Why has he not let himself express this before? "Well. There you are, Anakin." He verbally stumbles a bit, overcome by emotions he's never allowed to surface with such intensity. "It's… good to have you home."

_There's_ a semblance of that smart-assed grin Obi-Wan knows so well, has attempted on several occasions to humble with pithy success. If he's to curb young Leia's budding cheekiness, he'll have to be more creative...

Anakin's trying to communicate; he emits a strangled choke, followed by a dry hack that alarms Obi-Wan. The master leans urgently into his former padawan, giving his vitals a speedy check as he reaches for – .

Anakin's robotic hand clutches Obi-Wan's sleeve. The move is sloppy, but it halts Obi-Wan long enough for Anakin to croak unsteadily into his ear:

"Far… t'much dign'ty, m'ster."

Then, the gale is howling against the ratty little house on the Outer Rim, a whirlwind of sand is howling through the crevices and into everything, and Obi-Wan is howling with unabashed laughter and thankfulness and sheer, stupefying _relief_ until his stomach fairly aches from the exertion.

"I'm sure I'll regret saying this, but Force, you are a sight for sore eyes, my old padawan," Obi-Wan exclaims, and he simply cannot contain the smile that widens until his teeth gleam brightly in contrast to the shadows of sunrise on Tatooine. "Once we get you a haircut, you might even be presentable."

It takes a heaving breath for Anakin to reply, but there's a playful lilt to his rasp. "D-doubt it."

Obi-Wan wants to weep, but Jedi don't cry, do they? They don't possess, they don't attach, they don't, they don't, they don't…

_He_ does. In this moment of profound grace, Obi-Wan Kenobi buries his head against his brother's and lets loose another torrent of long-repressed emotion.

And doesn't care which Code he's violated in doing so.

_Finis._

_Yep, Obi-Wan is the first person Ani sees when he wakes. I know it would've been all star-crossed sentimental if it was Padme – and, believe me, I'm all for Ani/Padme deliciousness – but Obi-Wan's been everyone else's rock while experiencing a chain-reaction of strong emotions himself. He had to blow. And Ani had to wake up. How convenient that they did it at the same time…_

_But that's my take. I'm interested to hear yours… _


	11. Chapter 11

_More than a few folks have asked about the daddy/twins reunion, so here you go; Ani discovers his children share many Skywalker traits _**_(Sith-like grin)_**_. We'll get back to a plot eventually, but I thought this moment needed it's own section. I'm interested to hear what you think of it, as always!_

_Thanks again to my readers, reviewers, favorite-ers and followers (that means you, __**WildHorseFantasy, QueenNaberrie, Eldar-Melda,**__**C-Jam**__ and __**Rogue Hellsing**__). I really appreciate your interest and your feedback!_

_Now on to SkyGuy and SkyTykes, reunited. Hee. _

Chapter 11

He senses her in the darkness.

How can he not? She is a riveting beacon of radiance within the Force.

At this moment, however, her stealthy approach attempts to mask her presence. He smiles a bit at this. One day, his daughter will learn the practicality that one cannot "sneak up" on a Force-user.

For now, however, his attuned senses absorb tiptoed patter and the faint drag of something from which she draws solace – a blanket, perhaps?

There is trepidation, but no fear, along with a palpitation of excitement from the little one who scampers as quietly as a toddler can. The invisible thread connecting one Skywalker to another pulses with renewed intensity, and through his pain med-induced haze, Anakin fortifies the mental shields that protect them all.

He wants no distractions from this moment.

The patters come to a halt near the foot of his bed. Then, emboldened, she creeps a few steps more, until she stands flush with his pillow. Slowly, so not to frighten – he will _never_ cause her fright – he turns his head toward her. In response, she babbles something soft and wonderfully inaudible, then clasps a chunky hand, blanket attached, over her mouth.

If he could interpret the incredulity of a one-year-old child, he'd read _caught me!_

He sees her outline in the darkness, a small shape with nothing discernible except the round wonder of two mahogany eyes staring unabashedly into his. Somehow, he knows her skin is milky and her chestnut hair shines like Padme's, but the emotion of their invigorated connection takes precedence over what will be seen in the light of morning.

Anticipation. Curiosity. _Are you?_ the little one seems to ponder as their eyes meld for lingering moments. She's so young, he thinks; she cannot possibly comprehend any of this. She simply gravitates toward a bond that has irrevocably linked them from the moment she was conceived.

It is the Force, but it is also something much greater.

"Hello, Leia," Anakin greets his daughter in a thick whisper, and something that's been coiled tightly in his chest loosens with every moment of her nearness. "It's all right, little princess. It's me."

_Your father._ He doesn't say it, can't voice it yet. As if affixing a title will make this moment disappear in a cruel poof.

He raises his flesh-hand with painstaking slowness from the bed, palm open and fingers splayed, watching as her saucer-like eyes follow its movement. Without hesitation, her tiny hand reaches toward his, index finger leading with a quick poke into the heart of his palm – a jolt that sends exhilaration through them both. Then, her diminutive hand is fitting into his large one, and he's grinning like an utter fool and nothing, absolutely _nothing_ hurts anymore.

She makes delightful noises that his rational mind tells him every child her age emits, but the part that revels in his mesmerizing daughter concludes that she must be exceptionally brilliant. He laughs, joy bubbling in an endless supply, and she garbles back the most wonderful language he'll never understand.

She's perfect. This moment is perfect only because his daughter more than compensates for her woefully imperfect father, he thinks. Always will.

Then her hand snatches from his and she flees, bare feet paddling quickly across the floor with not nearly the furtiveness of her approach. He should feel alarmed at the abrupt loss, worry that this brief, unexpected contact has scorched her in a way of harm, but…

He doesn't. The elation simmering through her veins matches his own. He's not at all surprised when he hears the flurry of a second set of naked soles running in tandem with Leia's as his little girl reappears, her quicksilver flash in the moonlight trailed by another, slightly taller one.

She reclaims her place by Anakin's bed, chattering nonsensically to her brother, who lingers at her side with a bit of sleepy reticence. Their hands are joined.

Luke's hair is pale and tousled by the light of Tatooine's moons, but his presence glimmers with more luminosity than the most striking constellations. And so guileless and pure that the more Anakin explores him within the Force, the more awestruck the father becomes.

Funny, he always thought this meeting would be akin to a strike of lightning – quick, powerful, unforgettable. But the essences of his children wash over him with the grace of a Nabooian rain shower. Languid. Soothing. Equanimity that endures with the comfort of an embrace.

Anakin opens his mouth to speak, but his throat constricts. He swallows, tries again through a choke of swirling emotions. "Hello, my Luke."

Leia plunks the twins' joined hands onto the bed, and Anakin immediately gathers their little fingers in his flesh-hand. A sigh escapes him as he struggles to contain his tears, but meditation techniques are no equal for _this_.

Luke doesn't exhibit the overt animation of his sister, merely tips his head to the side and takes in the moment. But, once he and Leia exchange a glance of collusion – a mere _glance_, their father marvels – both are hopping madly in time with playful noises their father construes without translation: _Want to be with daddy!_

They quickly begin to climb the foundation of Anakin's makeshift bed, tumbling over one another eagerly in the process. Their willing accomplice, Anakin slides to make room – then groans quite loudly as his injuries announce their non-compliance with this hasty plan. The children clamor, twin-chatter growing more boisterous as the barrier to their father becomes obvious.

"Hold on, you little Ewoks!" Anakin says with a cross between a stutter and an outright laugh. "If you have big nuna eggs on your foreheads tomorrow morning, your mother might notice." To lift them himself risks pulling the hundreds of stitches and dressings from his wounds, not that he could in his current state, anyway. The pain meds considerably dull his mastery of the Force, as well – wouldn't want to drop either of his cherubs on their downy heads, either. Is there not a stepping stool nearby?

It won't matter in a moment, because the littlest Skywalkers are fairly squealing with toddler glee, but it's music to his ears, so Anakin chuckles along in boundless optimism. "Luke, I don't suppose you can… well, _that _won't work, will it? Blasted bed, anyway."

Then, it registers exactly how much he _needs_ their squirmy little forms tangling the blankets and kicking his sore spots, despite all the reasons they shouldn't set foot in this bed. He'll teach Luke rudimentary meditation for the restlessness and Leia how to kiss boo-boos better, he reckons, the realization that he'll not see an ounce of sleep afterward serving as no dissuasion in the least.

"Leia, sweetheart, you can probably step on… _not_ a good idea, you could fall. No, _don't _do that, Leia, please. Obi-Wan would call that a brain delusion, and daddy shouldn't have those when he's looking after you, should he?"

Daddy. Well… he _is_ one, even if he's getting fairly exhausted without moving a muscle, what with all this shushing and placating and brainstorming solutions while his children's exuberance morphs into discontent. If he thought Jar Jar's bouquet of noises was aggravating, he's swiftly learning a lesson in the unpleasant commotion of unhappy toddlers, vape it…

Oh, kriff. With their Force abilities, they probably heard that. And, knowing his luck lately, they'll undoubtedly repeat it to their mother at the most inopportune time...

Blame Obi-Wan. He _has_ been cursing more lately.

Before Anakin can fret another second, peripheral movement directs him to Luke, whose chubby feet have suddenly left the floor. His son floats quite ably upward and lands roughly on the bed, rolling about the blankets while giggling the entire time. It happens so swiftly that Anakin foggily assumes the hallucinogenic qualities of pain meds must be responsible – until his willowy daughter follows suit, levitating from the floor with a delicate guffaw that serves only to incite her brother's amusement. She's more elegant in her dismount from the air to the bedspread, descending with graceful aplomb to a sitting position.

Well. He and Obi-Wan will definitely need a long discussion about _this._

His children's attentions transfer from their rather amazing feat to sharing their first intimacy with a father they've known only through lullabies warbled across the stars. Anakin forgets that his daughter – or was it his son? _Darn,_ they're already pulling tricks on him – just utilized the Force quite impressively and focuses on the little beings who have long occupied his most fervent dreams.

Later, he'll catalog every tacit smell, touch and sound of them, but in this instant, he opens his arms and they scramble into them with doubtless trust. He doesn't have to worry about the pain; something innate directs his children to be mindful as they nestle their heads into his chest, his arms encircling them with the primal tenderness of a father. He briefly distresses about the durasteel of his robotic arm touching his son, but Luke merely yawns as he prods at the circuits, then abandons them when his crystalline eyes drag.

"You two are full of surprises, aren't you?" Anakin smiles, entirely fascinated. The sensations nearly overwhelm him – sticky arms around his neck, toes digging into his thigh, breath a rapid beat on his shoulder, then a more relaxed rhythm.

He plucks Leia's inquisitive fingers from his too-long hair and captures her hand, hoarsely whispering a well-worn bedtime mantra that sustained them across the stars: "Sleep well, Luke. Rest easy, Leia." His lips brush her forehead, rest there a bit longer than necessary, then transfer to Luke's temple and savor the pulse of his vibrant heart. "Remember I am always with you."

Finally, I am with you.

The rustic scent that once clung to his mother's tattered clothing fills his nostrils, or is he wandering to sleep? Fleetingly, he recollects the manner in which she'd held him at arm's length before releasing him to follow a path of his own choosing.

_Be brave and don't look back. _

His arms now full with his children, Anakin is at a loss to understand the fearlessness that allows a mother to relinquish her only child to such a dubious journey. She had no one else, yet she'd given him the freedom to chart his destiny, despite the consequences. Why does he not share that intrepid courage?

He's nearly asleep when he realizes it amid his children's sweet, steady respirations that beckon him to drift away.

In this moment, he isn't afraid.

_Finis._


	12. Chapter 12

_I haven't done this in awhile, so I probably should: I do not own Star Wars or any of the SW characters. They are the brainchild of George Lucas. He's the creative genius; I'm just a storyteller who borrows his brilliance. _

_Chapter 12 could be called a few things, including: The Situation According to Han Solo, or, if you're so inclined: Things Get Complicated When You Don't Die. _

_Another hearty "thank you" to a ton of wonderful folks who comment, favorite and continue to follow this story. Shout-outs to Disco Shop Girl, Guest, Eldar-Melda, maesda, Mo Angel, C-Jam, , Queen Naberrie, Wild Horse Fantasy, mchef90 and Rogue Hellsing for their reviews of the last chapter. I do my best work when prompted, so please keep 'em coming! _

_Now, onto Chapter 12…_

There's a certain order to this place, Solo thinks as the one called Obi-Wan hands him a cup of something shrouded in a cloud of steam.

Which is about the last thing the boy desires on a planet that feels like the inside of a teakettle to him, all scalding vapor without the liquid part.

But hot drinks at breakfast are part of the pattern, so he sips without complaint. _Kriff_, it's Dashan tea. He can use a little zip of caff in his blood to stave off the uneasiness. Ani would've shrugged and poured it for him in comradeship, but this Obi-Wan person and Ani's pretty wife?

Nothing doing. Apparently, ten-year-olds are perfectly capable of snatching Jedi's arses from disaster and piloting craggy old freighters expertly through Imperial fire, but they're too _adolescent_ for caff.

Right.

So he slurps with uncommon stillness and watches as Ani's too-classy wife – didn't she used to be a queen? – monitors a skillet of scrambled nuna eggs with sideways glances down the hall. As if on cue, the clatter of rambunctious twins and their delighted father carries into the kitchen, with squeals from the little one called Leia mixed with murmurs from Ani and exclamations from the crawler named Luke.

"I'll get them, Padme," Obi-Wan offers with utmost politeness before she even asks, as has also been the pattern. _She_ gets anxious, but _he_ does the legwork so she can glide on the periphery of her husband's orbit without being pulled into it.

Because that would mean she'd actually have to _talk_ to him.

Padme fills a heaping plate, as she always does, and passes it dutifully to Obi-Wan for delivery. After a few moments, the Jedi master returns to the kitchen with two energetic toddlers, who shatter the silence with pings of silverware and mindless chatter. Tension drained, Padme wears her relief in sparkling smiles and hospitable graces that completely explain why Ani is so _stoopa _in love with her.

What in the nine hells of Corellia is going on here? Solo wonders. A Jedi and a queen? There's gotta be a law, or a guideline, or a suggestion that details just how bad an idea that is.

Except…

The queen-turned-senator had been devastated when they'd arrived two standard weeks earlier, her petite frame bowed in grief and tiny hands shaking over Ani's damaged skin. Once she'd summoned the courage to actually touch him, she'd done little else, her fingers weaving in his hair or trailing reverently down his cheek every time Solo checked on him.

Sent by Obi-Wan one morning to spell her with a cup of tea, Solo had been dumbfounded to find a fan of magnificent curls scattered about Ani's chest, Padme's head buried so tightly against his dressings that he'd wondered if either of them could breathe. Transfixed, the boy had watched as she'd stroked Ani's neck so delicately with her palm, as if the Jedi could genuinely _break_ from her touch, while she whispered muffled endearments into his collarbone.

"…back to us, Ani… past is done… need you, need you, _need you, Ani_…"

And she was crying, too, because Ani's bandages had been so damp that Solo changed them when Padme departed for a refill of tea.

Now that her husband's had the temerity to survive, however, Padme hasn't set foot in the bedroom that serves as a secondhand medical ward. It's safe to deduce that Ani hasn't felt the gentility of her touch or heard the soothing lilt of her voice in many days.

Which explains the Jedi's general crankiness much more than the sting of mending injuries.

"Can I ask you something… sir?" the Corellian questions Obi-Wan after Padme spirits the children into their bedroom. He's not sure why he addresses Obi-Wan in such a manner, because he never calls anyone "sir" unless his intent is to disarm so he can filch something later.

The master is pensive, even in this bleak acre of hell that Solo is pretty sure will siphon the life right out of him, given enough time. "Of course."

"We're leaving soon, aren't we?" The boy is nothing if not observant. He'd caught the trailer of a HoloNet report at one of the shops in Mos Espa, where he'd accompanied Obi-Wan on a quick supply run. Not much, but enough to glimpse Ani's high cheekbones plastered above the phrase "enemy of the Empire."

"As soon as I can secure a more suitable location and Anakin's fit to travel," Obi-Wan answers candidly, and Solo decides right then that he can trust this man. "We're still relatively safe. The iron fist of the Empire falls short of the Outer Rim. And most here keep to themselves."

Solo squints knowingly. If he was a bit taller, Obi-Wan could mistake him for a seasoned comrade. "People looking to snag that bounty won't care about a little sand… sir. Stars, if he wasn't a friend of mine…"

Obi-Wan nods, topping off his caff and treating the boy to a half-cup with a wry grin. "Duly noted, Han. You've seen your fair share of adventures, haven't you?"

"Maybe an unfair share," the boy admits, azure eyes far too old for his youthful face. "And I can do more than fly. I know my way around a blaster and I'm good in a fight. Even the spazzy droid'll tell ya that."

"You don't have to convince me of your attributes, Han. Anakin trusts you. That's good enough for me." Obi-Wan pauses, olive-gray eyes averting to the shifting sands outside the modest hovel. It's hardly a surprise when the boy queries, "Can I ask another question?"

Obi-Wan affirms with another nod, and Solo plunges on with a ten-year-old's ignorance.

"What's their problem? I _know_ he loves her. He's always looking for her and he closes his eyes when he hears her voice, like he's saving it because he's never gonna hear it again. And the _stoopa_ look he gets when he tells Leia how she's so pretty, just like her mom… She _is_ pretty, for a baby, but… you know what I mean, right?"

A chuckle laced with a bit of scorn escapes Obi-Wan's lips. He'd had years to decipher the telltale signs of his padawan's illicit relationship, but the boy's decrypted it in a few weeks. Solo is no Force-user, for certain; just an astute witness with a knack for sniffing out nuances of regret.

"It _is_ a ridiculous look, isn't it?" Obi-Wan agrees dryly. "As for Anakin and Padme... well, they have many issues to discuss, when they're ready to do so."

"When they're ready?" Solo parrots, swallowing the last of his caff and simultaneously reaching for a muja muffin. "It's just my two credits, but I'm pretty sure there's no discussing _anything_ when you're dead. If Ani wasn't a Jedi, and if you didn't do some Force hocus-pocus on him, he'd be dead now. How come she's here and he's… everywhere_ else, _anyway?"

Obi-Wan sips deliberately at his caff, appraising Solo with the critical eye that so often kindled Anakin's ire. "It's far too early in the morning for _that _story, my young friend. Perhaps while we put those replacement parts to good use on the speeder – "

"Careful, master," comes a cheerful quip from the hallway as the unmistakable figure of Anakin Skywalker – slightly hunched in deference to his impairments – lopes into the dusky kitchen. "I'm sure you haven't forgotten what happened the last time you tinkered with a vehicle?"

"That was _not_ my fault." Obi-Wan's response is rapid-fire. "Artoo's direction was ill-advised and – "

"No loose wire jokes," Anakin rejoins, mouth twisting in earnest even as he subtly grips the table for support. "He tries." Obi-Wan casually pulls out a chair as Anakin speaks, knowing his former padawan is silently rankled by his fragility. That Anakin lowers himself gingerly into the seat is a concession for one who prides himself on a mystique of invincibility.

"Did I say anything?" Obi-Wan mildly protests, and Solo smothers a snicker. "I didn't _say_ anything!"

The moment is so lighthearted that Obi-Wan can almost allow the knowledge that the tow-headed boy from Tatooine nearly sentenced himself to death a few scant weeks ago to slip into the transient sands. Almost.

"You were about to," Anakin retorts, voice quaking a bit with effort. Solo notices how the young man discreetly surveys the room. _Sorry, boss-man. She's not here. _

Just then, Padme's voice floats from the twins' bedroom; Anakin's demeanor rallies in an instant. His palms roll open on the table, his chin edges toward her voice and something distinctly hopeful floods his eyes.

"Ben, could I bother you to check if Anakin's still awake? Luke refuses to put his shirt on without 'dada's' assistance – honestly, they picked up _that_ word quicker than anything – but I don't want to send him in there if… Oh." Quite suddenly, she's standing, motionless, in the company of two men and a boy, all at a tenable loss for words.

Doubtless a first for each, she grouses ruefully, then pulls her shoulders ramrod-straight as if preparing for the most contentious senatorial argument of galactic times.

Anakin's expression flits between taut and buoyant. "Wide awake," he informs needlessly, since Padme's staring directly at him – well, directly over his shoulder in purposeful avoidance of his eyes. In turn, Anakin's gaze averts to his former master. "No need to check on me, _Ben_."

Solo detects a sliver of annoyance in Ani's tone and now he's absolutely rooted to his spot. Maniacal zillo beasts couldn't drive him from what has all the makings of a rollickingly good show.

"We've made a name for ourselves, even on the Outer Rim, I'm afraid," Obi-Wan remarks by way of explanation. "Better to adopt aliases and gamble that the good people of Tatooine are as aloof as ever."

He turns two mugs upright as he says it, pouring one full of caff and Force-propelling it in front of Anakin. To the other, he adds a scant spoonful of sugar and a dash of blue milk, then slides it to the corner of the table nearest to Padme.

Anakin nods in consensus with the strategy, but his eyes have narrowed. In the span of a few moments, he's sensed a distinctive shift in dynamics. Where he was once the protector of precious secrets with his wife, keeping Obi-Wan firmly on the shell of their intimate cocoon, synergies have irrevocably changed during the past year.

_He_ is now the outsider, down to Obi-Wan's casual knowledge of how his wife prefers her caff.

Anakin's head swings slowly back to Padme, whose trademark poise holds, yet her husband sees a small muscle in her jaw flexing just so.

It did the same in that glorious moment when she told him he was to be a father.

The remembrance morphs a smirk into a faint smile. "How shall I address you, milady?" he asks in a tone edged with challenge.

_Angel? That's benign enough, isn't it?_ He doesn't say it, but she hears the bitter phrasing anyway. It's in the tightening of her mouth as her eyes skitter toward the grimy windowpane, as if the monotony of sand swirling about the barren landscape is abruptly fascinating.

"Ben refers to me as Naama when we're in the city," she answers stiffly to the windowpane.

"Naama." Anakin tries it out, swallows the distaste on his tongue. Naama is pleasant, functional, sparkless. A hollow caricature for the woman whose verve and vitality have captivated him since he was a boy.

_Padme._ She is fiery, and infuriating, and breathtaking, all at once. A cherished word that, in his gravest despair, glimmered unceasingly through the darkness and preserved whatever was left in his soul.

Head down, Anakin braces his hands on the table, rising carefully to aching feet. No one dares offer assistance; his posture has become hard, unflinching. There is no grimace or falter as he stands to his full height.

"I'll do my best to remember your new identities," he says, too softly. During the Clone Wars, it was well known throughout the 501st Battalion that General Skywalker's chagrin was at full pitch when his tone lowered to near inaudibility. Anakin gives a curt bow to Obi-Wan. "Ben." He then repeats the gesture to his wife's back; Padme hasn't rotated even slightly. "Naama. If you'll excuse me, I believe my son has an issue with his shirt."

He spares Solo an affable wink before limping toward the bedrooms. Padme exits just as quickly and in a decidedly opposite direction, muttering something of "arseholes" as her ringlets wave in time with her departure.

The charged atmosphere dissipates in their wakes. Obi-Wan rests his elbows on the table, hands steepled as if in meditation. Solo wonders if he needs a belt of something pungent and Corellian, like Garris Shrike often did after a fracked-up mission.

"That went well," Obi-Wan states unconvincingly.

Solo waits a beat. Then two. He's the new guy here, after all.

Aw, vape it. "Not really," Solo contradicts charmingly.

Obi-Wan waits a beat, but just one. "Indeed, young one." A sigh. "Not really."

_Finis. _

_I had a mini panic attack over this one. After a few angsty-charged chapters, it was hard to shift gears into something more matter-of-fact while retaining a current of emotion (Ani/Padme, anyone?). I hope you like the results, but feel free to tell me yourself! _


	13. Chapter 13

_Want the good news first? This chapter is all about Ani/Padme reconnecting. *__**happy dances for readers who have been rattling my cage for this* **_

_And the bad news? This is probably my last update for a few weeks. I'm going on vacation soon and trying to get a jillion things together. Before you get all aggressive negotiations on me, know that I'll try to update again before I head out, but I can't promise anything. *__**ducks to avoid the virtual lightsabers***_

_May the Force continue to be with readers who follow, favorite and comment on my little piece of obsession: __**ILDV, angie, , Raiukage, QueenYoda, maesde, Eldar-Melda, QueenNaberrie, Mo Angel, Rogue Hellsing**__ and __**PhantomFan13**__, in particular. Reviews just rev me up to write more, so I really appreciate you all!_

Chapter 13

_Tatooine  
__Nine weeks after the twins' first Life Day_

The suns have already dipped below the endless plains of the Jundland Wastes when Anakin emerges from the 'fresher, hair wet and tousled.

"Oh." He's slightly befuddled as his gaze sweeps the room, coming to rest on his wife. Then darts to his bare feet, squeaky from the shower.

Inevitably, awkwardly, his eyes settle on Padme, since the room is empty otherwise. "Um, I was looking for Ob… Ben."

He quickly fastens the top strings of his tunic, deft touch slowed by bandages peppering his flesh fingers. Despite her discomfit, Padme notices that his complexion has livened a bit. He's shaved the honeyed beard, revealing smooth cheeks and splotches of color; a slash of yellow near melding abrasions atop his right eye, a spill of plum staining the opposite side and crawling down his neck.

Aside from the exposed wounds, Padme decides the shave has done him good. He's always worn the clean, efficient look of a Jedi well, down to the padawan's plait she'd often repaired herself during too-brief respites from war.

A memory flashes like a jagged crack of lightning across the lonesome dunes.

_He's cross-legged on the carpet of 500 Republica, toes digging into the plush fibers as she hovers on her knees above him, fingers tucking loose strands into the twine that affixes his braid. _

_She loves him like this; golden waves creeping down his neck, proper Jedi attire improperly rumpled, feet bare. _

"_Hold still!" she cries, pushing down on his broad shoulder with one hand as the other fumbles with the braid. The normally refined senator cannot recall the last time she's giggled in the manner of a carefree schoolgirl – or if she ever has, given her early ascent into politics. _

_Which is the reason these moments of light-hearted play are devoutly precious._

"_Ani, I can't fix it if you keep fidgeting!"_

_He snickers in mischief, turning his head to steal glances at his new wife and gamely ignoring her scowls. "Why does it matter? Hopefully, it's coming off soon, anyway." _

"_It tickles when you kiss me," she explains, cheeks flushed a fetching pink both from the lively struggle and the subject. In truth, neither cares much about winning the tussle, but the glorious skin-to-skin contact is a heady tonic for aching months apart. _

_Force, but he loves her like this; hair unbound to tease his ear, nails grazing his wrists, the prim senator transformed into flirty temptress._

_She isn't completely off-guard when he twists with Jedi stealth, rolling so quickly that she's on her back and gazing, adoringly, into his crystalline eyes before she can even blink. _

"_That," she announces, a coy smile overtaking her lovely face as her body practically hums, "was a sneaky move, Ani."_

_He nods a nonchalant "Mm-hm," eyes glimmering as the forgotten braid, still partially unraveled, brushes her cheek and his lips follow its path. _

_Her hands curl into his chest, savoring the chiseled planes that belie a great reverence in the way his touch makes her feel vibrantly alive when so many have perished in this damned war. "Complaints, milady?"_

_Her smile fades as she retires heavy eyes, immersing herself in a landslide of bottomless emotions. Thankfulness. Need. Indescribable joy. _

"_Not one," she purrs, and then there is nothing left to say._

The memory has run its course before he catches his breath.

Shaken by both the recollection and the proximity of the person it regales, Anakin gapes at his wife. Padme immediately shushes him, a bit agitated herself, while gesturing toward the twins' room with an index finger to her lips.

"I just put the twins down," she whispers, grateful for the convenient topic as she runs a hand through her hair. Force, he makes her so jumpy!

"Why don't you go say goodnight?" She averts her gaze, as his disheveled state serves only to rattle her further.

"Besides, they'll get cross if they don't hear that little song of yours before bed, so you really should go in."

He crooks an eyebrow in surprise. Even swamped by shaggy hair that rivals her own for its unruliness, he's strikingly handsome.

"They're waiting for you, Anakin," she encourages, eyes as soft as the muted glow of twilight on the horizon. He winces at the formality she attaches to his name, then capitulates at his fortune that she addresses him at all.

One step forward, he thinks, then walks toward his children's room, hoping fervently to avoid the two steps back.

x. x.

x. x. x. x.

A standard half-hour later – it could be longer, really; time eludes him when he's just Daddy – Anakin is more relaxed as he closes the bedroom door. When his son plasters a messy kiss on his cheek and his daughter clings to his neck, it takes no effort to shed his moodiness and submit to their sunny, uncomplicated outlook.

He finds himself in the kitchen, where waning sunlight mingles with the radiant spheres of rising moons. The blend of colors stretches lazily over the dunes, seamless and haunting.

His home planet has its own harsh beauty. He'd just never thought to look for it.

"Did they give you any trouble?"

Although his wife possesses the stillness of a Jedi, her presence is unforgettable when detected. She's changed into something light and flowing for bed. It displays very little of her skin, despite the humidity of the approaching night, and yet, it entrances him. Her hair is coiled atop her head as much for practicality as for cooling, revealing the sleek contour of her neck.

He tries mightily not to stare. Yes, Tatooine has it own dazzling beauty. He's just never viewed it through this lens before.

"Yes," he answers and can't quite squelch his grin. "They're so… their energy never… and _smart_! I think Leia was actually counting the pallies on her plate at dinner, and Luke, _well_… When we look at the stars, I swear he knows some of the constellations already…"

There simply aren't enough superlatives, so he makes due with "They're just _spectacular_."

On this, at least, they will always agree.

Trying to banish the prickle of _something_ that winds sinuously up her spine, Padme is left with a growing awareness that she is alone with her husband in this cramped kitchen. "You were looking for Ben before," she observes, occupying herself by sorting muja berries for tomorrow's breakfast. "Something wrong?"

"Wrong? No." He shakes his head self-consciously. "I'm starting to look like a wookie with all this hair. Thought I'd get a trim before I scare the kids. I'd do it myself, but – " he lifts his cybernetic arm, its digits still charred and mangled " – it's probably better if I leave it to Obi-Wan. He did the honors when I was a padawan."

"He's still out working on the speeder with Han," Padme supplies. "It didn't sound promising when they came in for caff awhile ago."

His flesh-hand draws through his hair, catches in strands singed by fire. "Wonder how long it'll take for Obi-Wan to figure out Han's more mechanically inclined than he is."

His laugh is infectious, always has been. She finds herself responding to the ease of lounging in a humble Tatooine kitchen with her husband while their children slumber nearby.

Unthinking, Padme catches a tendril of Anakin's damp hair at his ear and slides it through her fingers until the burnt end sifts between her thumb and forefinger. It's absurd to think the acrid aroma of fire lingers after all this time, but she has a sudden compulsion to rid him of the possibility.

"How short?" she asks, raiding the drawers for supplies: shears, towels, brush, horrible Tatooine liquor to steady her nerves. "Grab one of Ben's robes to cover yourself."

"Um…" He doesn't want to appear ungrateful, but he's relatively certain his impulsive wife has never given a haircut. Call him clairvoyant, but having numerous handmaidens available to primp on a whim yields no confidence that he'll emerge the least bit presentable.

But he'll have her undivided attention. That, he cannot resist. Moments later, Anakin sits at the table, hair freshly brushed as Padme stands behind him with tools in hand.

"Hold still." Something faraway flickers in her chestnut eyes, but she doesn't acknowledge it.

He feels _her_ before the sensation of her touch registers on his skin, breathes a little quicker as she leans into his back. The warmth of her body flows into his, wrapping them both in an invisible blanket of repose. He squirms in his seat, unnerved by the familiar scents of muja berries and that flowery soap she must've been able to acquire somewhere here on the Outer Rim.

He reminds himself not to inhale as if her scent is as vital as the very air they breathe.

"You'll frighten the twins more if you come out of this lopsided," Padme jests, fingers following the curve of his collarbone through his tunic. He can differentiate the instant her pads detour from shirt to skin, as her bare touch sends a sizzle of current racing through his blood.

"Really, Anakin, I can't do this if you keep squirming," she scolds gently, capturing a section of his hair in her left hand as she begins cutting briskly with her right.

Does she not know _why_ he's acting as if he has a tribe of blood-ants patrolling his trousers?

"My apologies, _Naama_," he rejoins, gruff emphasis on her pseudonym. Between pointy scissors clipping away near his face and renewed longing that sparks each time her small hands graze his temple, earlobe, cheek – is she taking liberties with this? – he's feeling a trifle disoriented. And surly.

"It's perfectly fine to call me Padme inside these walls," she demurs, palms buried in his head – shearing, sectioning, re-combing the tangled waves.

Firmly convincing herself that caressing her husband's silky hair does _not_ constitute an act of intimacy.

"Why should I?" he argues as fine tresses rain on his shoulders. She takes several opportunities to dust him off; he shivers with each stroke. "If you don't call me by my real name, I don't see why I'm expected to use yours."

She yanks on a section with more mirth than necessary. To his credit, he doesn't budge. "Anakin_ is_ your real name." Debated impassively, but her heart rate rises with her exasperation.

"It's not the name you called me when we were alone. That's my real name, to you."

The current between them seems to pulse with voltage intensified as each freezes in mid-motion. The barb, Padme realizes as she lowers the scissors, is well warranted. But _Ani_… that endearment is vested in the man who pledged himself to her during a sun-soaked twilight on Naboo.

She's terrified that the warrior whose golden hair falls from her fingertips is not that man.

Padme reclaims the scissors with a deliberate grip. "As I remember, you asked me _not _to use that name because it made you feel like a child."

Of _course_ she'd recall a snappish comment uttered as they'd fumbled from the amiable dynamics of an adolescent relationship to the complexities of an adult one.

"As _I_ remember, you called me what you Force-well pleased, in public earshot or not," he responds, pointed but only mildly confrontational.

_Sith hell,_ he's right about that. She'd reveled in it sometimes, artfully smug as she'd tread publicly in her elegant gowns while chirping things like, "I'd like to hear the Jedi's point of view, _Ani,"_ and "Would you accompany me to the rotunda, _Ani?"_ without a soul realizing that "Ani" was their classified code for "lover/husband/mate."

Even her politician's tongue cannot dispute it.

So she concentrates on the task, establishing a crisp rhythm while silently wishing she'd paid better attention when Dorme groomed Captain Typho in a pinch.

"It wasn't my favorite nickname; _Ben_ never picked up on it," Anakin continues, letting his eyes droop as her caresses lull him into a drowsy calm of pure sensation. Snip, snip, pads skimming delicately from his crown to his shoulders, a wispy exhale closer to his cheek this time, so moist it whets like a kiss. Maybe he can release it all now, the weary mantle of the Chosen One and the ruthless sins of his lifetime, just collapse into her hands, boneless and replete. Maybe…

He sniffs, a pronounced sound that stills the scissors mid-cut. A ragged breath follows before his composure returns. "Kind of liked it from you, actually."

There's a drag of her nails across his nape. With a rumble from her throat, she beckons him to face her, sooty eyes darting about his face in examination of her handiwork.

She beams in triumph, even though _that _side is a dash longer, and the top of his head… well, Obi-Wan can remedy that.

"There. That should feel better, anyway." When his gaze meets hers, the restored image of the dashing Jedi who'd made it impossible not to love him resonates with such a profound connection that she has to look away.

She expects him to push, memories of the earnest padawan whose yearning smoldered from Tatooine to Naboo assailing her. Instead, he gives a winsome chuckle, flesh-hand extending toward her forearm.

"We could make an entirely new bantha out of all this," he cracks, gesturing to the scatter of ringlets on the floor. He leans forward; it's his turn to rid her of his discarded hair, which litters her upper body. A small clump sits comically on her nose. She follows his eyes to it and wrinkles it free.

His touch is soft and beseeching as his hand travels from her left shoulder to her right, a quest to rediscover the sweet landscape that was once his privilege, and his alone. He can't ascertain whether the quake comes from his hands or her body, but it doesn't matter. Husband and wife are powerless to this beguiling spell as his fingers crawl from her temple, down the lush plane of her cheek, then trace a path from her jawline and lower…

She flinches. Sharp and jolting as her eyes widen and her palm flies to her throat.

_She's still afraid of me. _The knowledge that he's earned such fear invokes deprecating shame that bows his head as his hands drop to his sides. He's not that beast anymore, is he? Not the one who sought to punish and cower her when the madness raged on Mustafar? Force no, he's not. He's _not!_

How, he despairs, can he apologize for the most regrettable act of a lifetime?

_Courage, padawan._ It's a cleansing rustle in the Force that roots him there even as his remorse spurs him to flee. _Release your fear._

He thinks of swaying sapflowers near a Nabooian waterfall; Leia's coo when he tickles her feet and Luke's mouth outlined in blue milk; his mother, coaxing the sand from his hair with a hearty laugh.

He gathers her hands loosely in his, leaning forward in the only gesture that can convey his contrition. His wife trembles as his lips caress her neck with utmost reverence, a barely-there touch that whispers regret with every graze. As he nuzzles near her heart, her hands cradle and her grace surrounds, leaving him able to articulate only a fragment of the apology she's owed.

"I'm so… _sorry_, Padme. If I have a thousand lifetimes, I still won't be able to… I never meant to…"

… _compromise the safety of you and our children._

…_disrupt the fragile peace you and Obi-Wan have created._

…_destroy the democracy you worked so hard to create._

…_violate you and your trust during those deranged moments as a monster. _

"… become a man you cannot love."

The words deflate him, his shoulders sagging before his wiry frame slumps. He would've tumbled to the floor if she didn't support him, her striking face crumbling one dainty feature at a time.

"Oh, Ani," she whispers, and the word is a symphony to his ears, "is that what you think?"

He cannot muster an answer, but she's retrieving something from her sleeve even as he seeks to escape. Then, his heart seems to swell further than the physics of his body allow and his chin trembles at the sight of the japor snippet he created for the girl who would become his wife.

It is innocence, and devotion, and hope encompassed in a simple gift.

"I've kept this safe since a brave little boy gave it to me years ago," she begins, eyes bright as they hold his. "I moved it to my wrist after Mustafar, but I think it's time I wear it near my heart again. It belongs there."

She offers the amulet to her husband with a sure hand, the leather strap smooth in his fingers as he regains the conviction to stand before her. She's fairly glowing as his arms encircle her neck, her Force-signature projecting certainty and… _love_ as he clasps the cord and the amulet falls below her breastbone.

It will bring you good fortune, he'd told her. Instead, it heralds a small miracle of forgiveness.

Because he can't help himself anymore and _Force,_ it's been a lifetime, he presses his lips to hers. With a wondrous sigh, she devotes herself to rediscovering the way he growls when she tugs at his bottom lip. It's still there, that torch of delicious fire that melts the senator away until only Padme remains. _His_ Padme, who runs her toes up his calves because it makes him blush - one of the few things that does - and tries desperately to replicate his mother's recipes from scratch. His _wife_ - not the former queen or the up-and-comer or even the little Naberrie sister - who tolerates droid bits all over their otherwise-spotless apartment and arrives late for lunch meetings when he's home because he likes company as he lingers in silken sheets, rather than a stone-like bedroll.

He reciprocates with a nip to the corner of her mouth and is rewarded with a throaty little gasp that radiates down to his toes. There's that _thing_ in the pit of his stomach again - a primal tightening he hasn't felt since Coruscant, and waking up to freezing toes sliding over his leg, and his love cursing like a clone trooper because she's overcooked the bantha stew again. Oh, but the way she offers_ dessert_ with a twitch that's better described as a leer while she twirls her apron with saucy purpose...

They kiss, laugh, reaffirm, until the spaces left dormant from their parting are full and complete, again.

Minutes or hours later – he loses track when he's a husband – she's grinning as she inches away with a tease. "Well, that was a sneaky move, Ani."

The dam breaks, because being here, having _this _again is far, far beyond what he'll ever deserve.

His tears mirror hers as he manages, "Complaints, Mrs. Skywalker?"

Her smile mirrors his, too. She guides her weeping husband's freshly shorn head into her lap and assures, "Not even one," meaning every syllable. Chest heaving with sobs, Anakin surrenders to the supplication she offers and finds a semblance of peace.

Then, there's nothing more to say.

_Finis. _

_Of course they have more to say! I just wanted this beleaguered couple to have a little goodness, for a change. _

_And whew! I'm an angsty little scribe today, but I hope it worked for you. I struggled a ton to get just the right balance between drama, tension and a little prize for the Ani/Padme 'shippers like me. Give it to me straight, fearless readers!_


	14. Chapter 14

_Here's some light-hearted boy talk before this chapter packs a wallop at the end. Ani/Obi-Wan redux and, goodness, do the boys have some issues. Poor Han is along for the ride. _

_As always, those who read and review are my Heroes With No Fear. Thanks, especially, to __**Jedi Angel001, C-Jam, Mo Angel, QueenNaberrie, Eldar-Melda, Raiukage, PhantomFan13**__ and __**Guest **__for taking a minute to ruminate on chapter 13. Keep 'em coming! _

Chapter 14

Obi-Wan rumbles in griping about blasted sand in blasted sockets, but both his stride and his ramblings halt when he glances at the kitchen table.

He takes in Anakin's cropped hair. Then, his gaze meanders to his former padawan's flesh-fingers twined in Padme's, resting next to a single cup of tea.

Apparently, they're sharing it. And Anakin _hates_ tea, which means...

"Well, this is certainly an improvement."

He's talking about the haircut. Probably. But, while the Jedi master's face is characteristically impassive, his head flicks toward his former charge with a musing that's distinctly un-Obi-Wan-like: _Might I suggest strengthening your shields before the excitability of __your__ thoughts sends __me__ to a cold shower..._

"Oh, just get _another _room," Obi-Wan mumbles to no one in particular.

Padme doesn't need Force sensitivities to read what's transpiring between the two. She wipes the hearty smirk from Anakin's face with a well-placed jab to the one unscathed inch of his body. He winces a bit, to her satisfaction.

But his fingers remain tangled in hers.

"Whoa… what'd I miss?" Solo questions as Anakin steals another sip of Padme's tea and their closeness is practically its own presence in the air. That, and the smarmy looks flying between Anakin and Obi-Wan, drop Solo's mouth clean open, causing him to smear the blob of grease he'd been mopping from his lower lip; it curves under his grin in an oily duplicate.

Well, this_ is _interesting, Solo thinks as he ambles toward the sink and nudges Ani's shoulder, with not remotely enough subtlety.

Might actually get a bedroom to myself.

"I was gonna give you the lowdown about what kriffin' sand does to brand-new kriffin' speeder parts, but I'm pretty sure that's nothin' compared to what's goin' on in here," Solo enthuses, plopping next to the Skywalkers without a scintilla of tact. "Spill."

This is one of those times when his age is glaringly obvious. And it's itching to land Anakin in a lot of trouble.

"I already know what sand does to speeder parts, and _language,_ Han," Anakin answers, hopefully quick enough to divert attention from his wife, but Padme has already risen from the table. A pooling blush warming her cheeks, she extricates her hand from her husband's with an unruffled dignity that starkly opposes Solo's brio.

"I believe I'll turn in for the night, _gentlemen." _Her tone suggests that she'd cheerfully hand-feed them all to a famished krayt dragon without thinking twice.

Anakin is on his feet as nimbly as his knitting injuries allow, the earnest suitor once more. Solo notices that the ginger-haired Jedi shakes his head a bit as husband escorts wife to their children's room. They loiter like teenagers, Anakin's flesh-hand roaming lightly from her wrist to her shoulder, then down again, before he ghosts a conspicuous kiss on her brow.

She straightens the wayward collar of his tunic before disappearing behind the door.

It's all kinda sweet, Solo muses. But it ain't gonna get him his own room tonight, vape it.

"Corellian _hells_, master, of all times to get a sense of humor about this," Anakin snipes, dropping dejectedly into the kitchen chair as Obi-Wan retrieves the scissors. "You absolutely _had_ to, didn't you? And _you_?" Anakin rotates toward Solo, whose soiled hands immediately flap as if to protest, "Who, me?" even as he backpedals.

Knuckles are sifting through Anakin's hair again, but they're merely functional as Obi-Wan examines Padme's handiwork. For his part, Anakin continues spewing mild venom at an unrepentant Solo.

"Don't think I won't remember this when you get a little girlfriend one day, Han, sweet-talking her with that scoundrel's tongue of yours."

The Corellian merely shrugs. Girlfriend? Nah. No strings attached for a freewheeling swindler – make that _businessman_ – such as himself. As if a realization dawns on him in a brilliant second, Solo wags his finger at Anakin in accusatory fashion. "Hey, I thought Jedi aren't s'posed to have wives or, y'know, kids, or family stuff like normal people."

Which is a massive problem, considering they've all established that Ani is _stoopa_ in love with his not-so-secret wife.

The little vein in Obi-Wan's neck that flutters when he's suppressing a laugh pulses to life, even as the Jedi remains mute. The Great Negotiator's expression, however, extends a challenge to Anakin: _Would you like to handle this one, or shall I?_

When Anakin's eyes remain abnormally round and his mouth uncommonly shut, however, Obi-Wan decides that watching his former padawan squirm has become rather tedious. "The Jedi Code forbids forming attachments," he informs in a recitation Anakin's heard on so many occasions that he can rattle it off himself. And yet, it reeks of antipathy and dehumanization as profoundly as the first time he'd digested it as a slave-boy from this very planet.

Even if the Code may have been right because he was so wretchedly, miserably _wrong._

"Attachments, such as family, friends and even deep-seated allies, can cloud a Jedi's overall loyalty to the Order and its mission of supporting peace throughout the galaxy."

Wait… what was _that?_ Anakin's never seen Obi-Wan's eyes skitter away like that, as if his belief in this sacrosanct tenant of the Order is no longer… absolute.

Curious.

Solo, however, is entranced and openly horrified at this concept of people as "attachments." For an orphaned boy from Corellia, it seems perversely cruel. "Do you mean you've never had a family or… a girlfriend? Y'know, I'm _ten,_ but I know… stuff… from the rougher parts of my home planet. Like, y'know… girls – " a cloud of rouge blooms on his cheeks " – and how they can make you feel all jittery – " Now his eyes dart to Anakin " – and… sex. WhenyougetalotolderImean," he finishes in a rush, swiping vigorously at the grease on his chin.

Obi-Wan's hands freeze abruptly in Anakin's hair, hold there for a few seconds. After a deep breath, Anakin feels his master relax, both within the Force and physically, before Obi-Wan sends a sharp, telepathic missive.

_Don't even think it._

Anakin's indignation sings through the Force. _I didn't think anything, master._

_You're about to. Stop. _

There's a twitch to the side of Anakin's mouth. _Did I __think__ anything?_

Obi-Wan's agitation rises, as does Anakin's prickly amusement. _You're about to. I'm serious – _

_You think it's fair that I'm the only poster boy for disobedience to the Code, do you?_

_If the boot fits, Anakin. _There's something edgy now, almost dangerous, in Obi-Wan's Force tone, as if his control teeters precariously on a fulcrum that swings to one side, then to the opposite with unpredictable tension.

If there's anything Anakin has never been able to resist, it's nudging his master's durasteel boundaries. And this subject is one that both itch to address, yet have tapped masterfully around during Anakin's convalescence.

_You so enjoy that it does, Obi-Wan. At least in this. If I remember the stories correctly – _

Obi-Wan is fairly seething now, eyes narrowing in degrees until they're focused solely on Anakin with surly warning while Solo blinks between them, aware that something significant is taking place beyond his realm of comprehension.

_The Jedi Order doesn't need to be further sullied –_

_Sullied? That's rich, master.__ I __can sully the Order but __you__ cannot? I believe the stories begin in Coruscant and Mandalore – _

Anakin decides it's fortunate that Obi-Wan's discarded the scissors; the master's hands clench deliberately, painfully around a mug of sturdy Tatooine clay._ Do not speak of them, Anakin. Just… don't._

Solo waits breathlessly, the crackle of each man's throbbing anger permeating the air. He really should say something to neutralize the rampant animosity, but the hair on the back of the boy's neck salutes in anticipation.

Lightning, waiting to strike.

Anakin's mouth is a grim line that could whip nastily in an instant. Solo has seen that look before, shivered with relief that it's never been directed at him.

_But we will speak of __my__ attachments, will we not? Now that I've left my deathbed, we will discuss the utter failings of the Chosen One, and all due to his blasted 'attachments'! Mine will be that of notorious legend, as the history holos ignore your own!"_

The Jedi are not even near enough to touch him, but Solo scoots his chair away from the table, anyway, stricken by waves of resentment emanating between the former master and padawan. The boy flinches when Obi-Wan's face twists into something savage and he snatches the mug from the table in a furious motion, roaring aloud,"Because I _surrendered _my attachments and remained true to the Order, to the Jedi who taught me and who were my brethren! You did not!"

Anakin appears nearly as stunned as Solo, but his expression is combustible as he wills his outrage into the Force and bitterly appreciates the irony of being the calm one for once. After his fists have slackened, he responds flatly, "No, I did not. The Jedi will call it my greatest failing, but I will never see my wife and children as anything other than the greatest gifts imaginable." His words are measured, deliberate. "The weight of my atrocities is mine alone."

Obi-Wan glares Anakin dead in the eye, steely slate to impenetrable sapphire. "Your fear for them led you into the darkness. Can you not see how this wholly illustrates the Order's stance on attachments?"

"Can _you_ not see that it was my own failing as a Jedi and as a man that led to my fall?" Anakin reiterates, trying to soothe the cagey ripple within the Force that has both wary and unbalanced. "Padme was not an accomplice, nor were my children. Why is their importance to me so abhorrent to you?"

"Because sometimes I want that, too!" The proclamation comes in a charged torrent before Obi-Wan can retrieve it. Force help him, but he cannot smother the sentiment, as staggering as it is. To finally – _finally!_ – relinquish feelings long-held in check by duty unleashes stirrings of freedom and misconduct, fused into a rush of helpless candor.

"Force-help me, Anakin, sometimes I_ hate_ you, not because you nearly destroyed a brotherhood I treasured and a way of life to which I was devoted, but because you have everything _I never knew I wanted_ _for myself_." Obi-Wan nearly hyperventilates, it's so taxing for him to eke out the words, but his body feels indelibly lighter as each flows into the sands. "Not for the Order, or the Republic, or the altruistic good of the galaxy as I was taught, but for _myself._ Sometimes, because my memories of Siri and Satine are both precious and heartbreaking, I can't even blame you for your choice." Obi-Wan seems utterly horrified with the statement, spills his caff because he's choking the mug between his fingers, before his trepidation ebbs with a shuddering sigh.

"And that, my aberrant friend, makes me the most human of men, but also the most deficient of Jedi, as only you can understand."

In the stillness that follows, the rational part of Anakin's mind deduces that time continues to pass. The natter of Artoo and Threepio from the back room and a cave beetle's lazy stroll a few feet from his bare toe are evidence that Obi-Wan's confession has not, in fact, stalled Tatooine's planetary rotation.

It just _feels_ that way, Anakin thinks, unable to formulate a reply or even take a rudimentary inventory of his reaction. He's not certain which part of the outburst affects him the most; whether he should be irreversibly wounded or absurdly proud that Obi-Wan trusts him enough to divulge such sacrilege thoughts.

He doesn't know _anything_ anymore.

"Um… sirs?" Solo squeaks impishly from his vantage point. Neither adult reacts, but the boy forges on, anyway, stung by what he's witnessed. "Maybe I don't know anything, but… if two of the best Jedi in the galaxy think the rules are bantha poodoo, maybe it's time for the Jedi to change them."

Obi-Wan's face remains stony, but Anakin's visibly cracks, cheeks a sallow hue amid eyes that gleam with self-hatred.

"They can't; the Order no longer exists," Anakin declares flatly, making his way toward the door shielding them from Tatooine's fickle, drifting sands.

"I've seen to that."

_Finis._

_My apologies for the light-hearted fluff that probably suckered you in before the Ani/Obi emotional slugfest. Have you ever had one of those knock-down, drag-outs where you can't even remember how it started but, in a flashpoint, it's vile and nasty? That's what I had in mind here. It wasn't pretty in my head; writing Ani/Obi-Wan fighting is like watching your parents bicker – miserable. The boys will take a step forward next time… _


	15. Chapter 15

_Whew! This one… well, it was a bear. And I'm kinda nervous about it, because I'm not sure I expressed everything as well as I intended. I'm just glad it's done. A lot. But, hey, let me know if it was cool or confusing, please._

_A grateful shout-out to __**Queen Naberrie, PhantomFan13, Wild Horse Fantasy, Rogue Hellsing, JediAngel001, Rauikage, TeresaLynne, Eldar-Melda, Haley Renee**__ and __**Queen Yoda**__ for your awesome reviews. You keep me going, even when the writing gets tough! _

_Now onto Ani/Obi's little jaunt into the desert…_

Chapter 15

The suns are already ascending and the caff is sharply aromatic under Anakin's nose as Obi-Wan hands him a mug. Residual effects of the night before are muted; Obi-Wan offers a sketchy smile as he requests Anakin's company on a sojourn to "somewhere we should go together."

Anakin's shrug is neutral, if a tad cautious. His thoughts probably mirror Obi-Wan's, equating this flimsy peace to a drunken tiptoe through a minefield. One cross or misinterpreted word may ignite a new barrage of animosity, and truth be told, both still smart from the bellicose darts uttered hours earlier.

But, dutiful as the padawan he once was, Anakin gathers his boots, swallows a few gulps of caff and follows his master into the sand.

x x x

x

They don't speak as the speeder whizzes just above the plains, the omnipresent grains of sand pelting their faces. The rhythm of Tatooine springs to life, the suns' rays climbing, their clothes already mired in granules and sweat as the winds provide background music devoid of chatter.

The Lars farm lies around the bend. As it progresses from a speck in the distance, Anakin feels the molten sun on his skin for the first time, wipes absently at a drizzle of perspiration.

He knows where they're going. The dull ache in his heart intensifies with every parsec, awareness growing of the time that's passed since he last touched a hallowed patch of sand. There's a clench of memories, brutally repressed to a place in him left shattered, then barren, after...

His chest is weighted, but Obi-Wan's fingers are light on his shoulder as they approach the gravesite, tidy and made surprisingly serene by sprigs of funnel flowers scattered about the stone. Anakin's bleary eyes are drawn to the vibrant orange of the blooms, delicate yet unyielding in the harsh environment.

Like his mother.

"Padme," Obi-Wan explains quietly as Anakin bends to brush the petals with his flesh-hand. "It was a contest of wills between your stubborn wife and the equally stubborn plants for awhile, but you can see which prevailed.

"She comes here often, even brings the twins sometimes."

Anakin's lips curl the slightest bit as his chest constricts. _I will not fall where she rests again, _he vows, remembering how he'd convulsed in hopeless sobs, fingers clawing into the sand. He hadn't the volition to rise on his own then, wondered why he should even try in a galaxy where someone as virtuous as his mother could be so unjustly mistreated. Owen had supported his elbow and Beru had mumbled soft solace, but only Padme's entreaties had coaxed him back to his feet.

_I wasn't strong enough to save you._ If I'd come sooner, the Tuskens wouldn't have captured you at all…

Anakin's stare is hard, helpless as he fixes on his mother's printed name. "Do you come here, as well?"

Obi-Wan's throat feels sluggish, unsure whether his answer will pacify or enrage. "Occasionally, yes. Does that bother you?"

The former padawan's expression does not change as a flicker of recollection passes through his mind. "I… don't know."

_I promise I won't fail again. _Oh, but he had – spectacularly.

The toe of Obi-Wan's boot digs gently into the sand, but his hand does not move from Anakin's shoulder. "I know this is where the darkness began," he states, eyes kind as he gauges Anakin's flurry of emotions in the Force. "Padme told me. I-I'm so sorry, Anakin, that I didn't listen when you told me of your dreams. If I'd taken your visions seriously, we could have – "

"No." Anakin's frame straightens, his eyes a narrowed, icy blue as he interrupts, and Obi-Wan wonders fleetingly if this trip was a dreadful mistake.

But when Anakin turns from the grave of his mother to the man who, despite the absence of a genetic tie, became his father, and then his brother, there is no resentment. His expression is undeniably sorrowful, but the recrimination that rumbles through the Force is painfully self-directed.

"No," the boy from Tatooine repeats, voice thready amid the steady wind of his home planet. "I think the darkness began the day I was born."

x x x

x

Now that the floodgates of his past have barreled open, Anakin conceals nothing.

They stand, side-by-side, at Shmi Skywalker's resting place as Anakin recounts with unflinching honesty the events surrounding his first return. The details are vivid, as if the brutality on his hands is newly christened with Tusken blood. The pulse of his hatred seems distant, yet hauntingly accessible as he relives his mother's final moments.

He has done worse then slaughter Tusken Raiders, now.

Sometimes, he stirs the sand under his boots and swipes grainy tears, recalling the abyss of rage that consumed him after his mother expired. To his relief, Obi-Wan exhibits stoic acceptance, nodding seemingly without judgment.

The master's head tilts thoughtfully, eyes glittering not in contempt, but with… compassion. It surges through Anakin like a refreshing breeze in the acrid heat that blazes like retribution.

Obi-Wan plucks at a weed nestled in the greenery. "You said you hated them all, even those who had nothing to do with your mother's torture. The Tuskens are barbarians; I understand your contempt of them, even if I can't condone it. But why punish the bystanders?"

It's an odd, but logical question. And, despite searching the recesses of memories he fervently wished to leave buried in these endless dunes, Anakin offers no explanation.

Obi-Wan does not probe. The suns' rays transform his hair from rusty to burnished gold as he brushes tiny morsels of sand from intricately-cut letters in the granite marker.

"Who did you really hate, Anakin? The Tuskens? No matter how cruel, their nature is to kill." A spike of turbulence vibrates within the Force, partially cloaking a bog of darkness slithering near. Obi-Wan dismisses the malevolence with seeming ease, though wisps curl around them both like a jagged cloak, lingering intimately near Anakin's signature. "Did you hate _yourself_ because you felt you should have intervened sooner?" Again, the Force trembles with indecipherable intent as Obi-Wan presses on, the pads of his fingers delicately tracing the "S" and "h."

He makes certain his next words are blunt, rising to once again grip Anakin's shoulder with firm gentility. "If you're looking to catalog the failings that led to your fall, Anakin, save some room for mine. You told me of your visions. I should have done something to ease your mind, not blithely insist they would pass."

The tips of his fingers follow the markings a second time, a peculiar connection forming between the live Jedi master and the deceased parent. Maybe, Obi-Wan realizes, it's not so abnormal, since the common denominator stands forlorn near them both.

Obi-Wan rises from Shmi Skywalker's grave to face the man whose lower lip quivers just as it had when, as a small boy, he'd experienced his first flight into space. "I'm so sorry, my friend."

There's an unsettling stillness in the Force, an enigmatic gathering of energies that, if blended and sparked just so, could collude in a dazzling storm. It echoes the eerie quietness with which Anakin rests on the balls of his feet, a stance Obi-Wan recognizes too well from the cusp of the battlefield.

Suddenly, Anakin's sinewy body unfurls, arms loose but controlled at his sides as his eyes scorch an electrifying blue.

Obi-Wan wonders if he'll ever stop scrutinizing that hue for taints of yellow.

"It's too late for apologies – yours _or_ mine," Anakin snaps as the skies of Tatooine seem to darken inexplicably with his mood. His jaw grinds as the skin on his flesh-hand stretches until wiry veins bulge from his forearm.

His voice is lifeless, yet Obi-Wan reads the strife feeding a cacophony of guilt. "She needed me, and I left her in this place. Why didn't I come back sooner? I was a Jedi! _I should have saved her!"_

Obi-Wan gives no ground, his boots entrenched in the shifting sands. "You hated yourself then, just as you hate yourself now. And every time self-hatred pounded, you struck at those you thought caused you pain: the Tuskens, the Jedi, Padme, until there was no one left to punish but yourself."

Anakin's body quakes with scarcely controlled emotion under Obi-Wan's hand, legs wobbly as the revelation seeps into his soul. Except, it isn't a revelation as much as an acceptance of bare truths endlessly denied. How long had he grappled with the crippling fright, even as his exploits as the Hero With No Fear made a mockery of it? How long had he waited for his insecurities to expose him as an unworthy impostor, rather than the Chosen One, as he'd been so boldly, publicly anointed?

He is nobody's hero, anymore. Never was.

Obi-Wan feels the armor of Anakin's despair crackling with menace, yet the younger man beseeches strength from the light. "Why did you tell Artoo to detonate those charges in Imperial City?" Obi-Wan demands, the image of Anakin, mangled and broken, seared in his mind. "Do you truly believe you are beyond redemption?"

The son gazes at the headstone that marks his mother's abbreviated lifetime, head bowed. "A Sith cannot be redeemed," Anakin recites slowly from the annals of Jedi curriculum. "If you believe what you taught me, you have your answer."

Obi-Wan walks a few paces, deliberately exposing his back. "Sith do not sing off-key lullabies to their fussy children, nor do they bother rescuing orphaned scamps like Han Solo. Sith do not mourn a lost mother, or love a woman so deeply that they carry a scrap of sentimental lace."

When Obi-Wan pivots back, he finds the man he reared studying him, rather than the reverse dynamic of their early years. _Good; keep listening, _the master instructs once again.

"I believe that Sith are incapable of love. There's the difference. Whether it weakens you or makes you invincible, Anakin, love was your cornerstone when Qui-Gon found you, and it is the lifeblood of the man you have become. I believe now, as I have since my master became one with the Force, that your destiny as the Chosen One still awaits."

Anakin's demeanor twists at the moniker he'd once embraced as a badge of entitlement. "Sidious would disagree with you."

"Sidious was a paragon of manipulation and deceit," Obi-Wan rejoins acidly. "He deceived many who trusted him with a depravity of lies."

Something in Anakin falters, his posture visibly crumbling. "What if they weren't all lies? At this moment, I hope – I _beg_ – that he never spoke one word of truth in my presence!"

With the last phrase, Anakin finally breaks, knees buckling as he folds one muscle at a time until his forehead rests, defeated, on his mother's headstone. He holds his face in palms grimy with sweat, eyes stinging as they weep bitter tears. Obi-Wan immediately drops beside him, trained to handle every possible situation but this – the disintegration of one he's come to love.

Attachments, indeed.

The headstone his confessional, Anakin wholly unburdens himself, his admissions both cleansing and horrible. Beheading a defenseless Count Dooku. Murdering the Separatist leaders. Leading the slaughter of his Jedi brethren. Some of these facts are already known to Obi-Wan, but the details make it no less staggering.

"I still have visions," Anakin admits, nearly hyperventilating with the vehemence of his confessions. "Being devoured by fire, then reborn in the flames that consume me." He shudders, broad shoulders retracting. "Trapped in a prison of artificial limbs and a mask that render me… inhuman. Subjecting my children to the same fate!"

As if hungry for the slightest acknowledgement, the darkness flares around them, humming with patience like a lightsaber poised to strike.

"I know you feel the darkness, Obi-Wan. It clings, and it claws, until I am so weary of resisting that I can barely breathe. Don't you see?" Anakin is pleading now, for empathy or forgiveness, Obi-Wan cannot be certain, but desperation laces his tone. "I _am_ the darkness, a Chosen One of the _Sith_. _I_ am the demon the Jedi vowed to destroy."

Now it is Obi-Wan's legs that surrender into the sand, coming to rest near Anakin's with a thud as his mouth opens with enough girth to house a gundark. He looks – and feels – as if he's gone a dozen rounds with as many gundarks as he ponders Anakin's revelation with eyes that glaze, then blink furiously.

"Sith'ari," the Jedi master finally mutters, shell-shocked as he exhales with meditative purpose. "You believe you are the Chosen One of the ancient Sith prophecy? Anakin, that's preposterous! Why… How… "

But he knows before Anakin confirms the source. The stray pieces of the puzzle of Imperial City suddenly coalesce, bringing a semblance of reason to Anakin's attempted self-sacrifice.

"There is no hope," Anakin claims flatly. "It's a fluke that I survived the explosion and Han beat the odds to get me here. I should've left the moment I was able, but when I saw Luke and Leia, and then Padme…" His eyes drift closed, squeezing as if to contain the tears, but they catch in his lashes, trickle down his cheeks. "The Dark Side _will _infect me again, Obi-Wan, but I will not allow it to touch my family. When this reprieve ends, you must keep them safe. From Sidious, from the Sith, and especially from me."

"No!" Obi-Wan is on his feet and thundering fiercely before his brain catches up with his mouth. "We've already established that Sidious is the consummate deceiver. He covets you, Anakin, you know that. Qui-Gon, Yoda, the Council… they could not have been so mistaken."

Anakin cannot – or will not – be swayed. "They were wrong about Sidious. And don't insult us both by claiming I had united support from the Council. With my midi-chlorian count, it was convenient to believe I was the Jedi's Chosen One, but they never trusted me."

"It was a mutual distrust," Obi-Wan points out.

"Deserved."

The master does not have to contemplate. "Agreed. But Qui-Gon was adamant, and his instincts were rarely that far off." That they're even engaging in this conversation suddenly seems absurd to Obi-Wan; he emits an uncharacteristic guffaw as his pacing resumes. "This is ludicrous. You may have _become_ a Sith for a brief interval, but you are not _inevitably_ a Sith. No. Sidious has fabricated something – "

"He offered no proof, save his word. We certainly cannot march into Imperial City to request access to the Sith archives." Anakin pauses, raising his hand to touch his mother's gravestone, but halting the gesture as if thinking better of it. "If we cannot be certain, I must assume Sidious speaks the truth. My actions certainly support the argument!"

Eyes gleaming a molten blue – has a sliver of gold breached those depths? – Anakin's hands ball into fists. "I will not endanger Padme or the twins. After I leave, I will hold you to keeping them from the reach – "

"You will hold me to nothing!" Obi-Wan explodes, both his patience and his mettle threadbare. "I am a _Jedi master_, remember? If you are truly a Sith, there are no treaties or gentlemen's agreements!" His right hand glides to his hip, twitching in readiness as it settles on his hidden lightsaber, voice lowered to a growl. "If I am a Jedi and you are a Sith, your impulse is to attack and mine is to defend. Will you not fulfill your new destiny now?"

His Jedi training should prompt a decisive response of palm to lightsaber, but Anakin does not react. The idea of initiating a battle with Obi-Wan elicits a stirring of bile within his abdomen. Sensing opportunity, however, the darkness flows like a river untamed, surging between his toes, circling his thighs, encapsulating him with greedy enticement. Its sinister whisper becomes a siren that goads with promise:

_His arrogance cost your mother's life. He consorted with your wife, slandered your children. He denies the supremacy of the Dark Side. Revenge is yours. Revenge is __now__. _

Slowly, deliberately, Anakin's fingers skim the hilt of his lightsaber. The moment seems to suspend, giving both ample time to strategize. Neither does; their eyes remain locked, a wordless standoff that leaves each dazed and entirely unwilling to move first.

Instead of giving passage to the dark, however, Anakin remembers a far-flung veil of light in a small room at the Temple. He is nine years old and shivering – Coruscant is always chilly to a desert-born boy – and afraid.

It's his first week as a padawan. On Tatooine, his skills were prized oddities, but among those who share them, he's _too_ different. Untrustworthy. A freak.

Now, in the middle of the night, something has extinguished the sky, because the stars he'd gazed so longingly upon in Tatooine have disappeared, and something menacing rumbles, actually causes the sturdy Temple walls to shake. Then, bolts of light knife through the darkness as the roars grow louder in his ears.

Obi-Wan senses his presence, of course, despite the infancy of their bond. "Anakin?" He's gruff with sleep, but not unkind. "Are you all right?"

The boy doesn't answer. Then, a dagger of light flashes quickly, and Obi-Wan can see the ovals of Anakin's eyes as he literally jumps just as a deafening crack pierces the air.

Anakin is petrified, his tiny body vibrating as he struggles not to cry.

"This is a thunderstorm, Anakin. Loud and a little frightening, perhaps, but harmless. Didn't they have storms on Tatooine?"

Unable to speak as the rains beat a staccato rhythm on the Temple's roof, Anakin's head works from side to side.

"Oh." Obi-Wan rubs at his eyes, as drowsy as his young padawan is wide awake. "Well, it will pass soon, I promise. Try to go back to sleep." Dismissing the boy, Obi-Wan lays back onto his pillow.

The rain pelts even harder, a torrential drumbeat as lightning lashes in accompaniment. Several minutes pass until there is a disjointed sigh.

"I know you're still there, Anakin." Stubborn silence is the only answer. "I promise you, the storm will be over soon." A pang of annoyance takes root, but Obi-Wan hasn't the will to quarrel. Though his bed in the humble master's quarters leaves little extra room, he pushes his quilt to the side and pats a space next to him. "Come, little one. Just don't mention this to Master Yoda, or we'll both have extra duties in the refectory."

Anakin scrambles gladly next to his master, wiggling into the covers and making sure he doesn't poach too much of Obi-Wan's pillow. The young master's shoulder nudging the padawan's is comforting, so much that the next crackle of lightning sizzles close, but Anakin has already fallen asleep.

They never spoke of it.

"I will not fight you."

The two declare it simultaneously, each snatching their hands from their weapons with a unison that could have been practiced, so completely synchronized are their movements.

Neither seems particularly shocked, nor relieved, just… numb.

"You're right about me," Anakin murmurs. "I hate myself, what I became here – " he gestures toward his mother's grave " – and on Mustafar. All the battlefields during the war when I succumbed to the darkness because I was too afraid of failing those I wasn't supposed to love." His hands tremble so heartily that he grips his tunic as if it could be ripped away.

"On Mustafar, you asked me if I was a Jedi or a Sith. I wish I could tell you, but I don't know what I am! And the darkness, it never stops... "

Anakin tries to hide his face from his master, but Obi-Wan is before him in two steps to clutch both cheeks, forcing a meeting of their eyes. "Your love is stronger than your hate, Anakin. Think of the times you fell prey to the Dark Side, then remember what brought you back." Something sparks in the azure depths of Anakin's gaze, hope rekindled. "Yes. Each time, something – _someone_ – was more important than the darkness. Padme. The twins. Even me."

Obi-Wan holds his brother's face as if it is a lifeline, grits a promissory through his teeth that is more fervent than anything he's pledged before. "If I must spend every day of this lifetime fighting the darkness for your soul, then so be it; _I will be by your side._ Code or not, you are my son, my brother, and I think you can be the best friend I will ever have, once we learn to trust each other properly."

Then Obi-Wan smiles, and the impervious shadows that sought to imprison Anakin finally disperse until the air reeks only of earthy sand.

"You are not alone anymore. Padme won't stand for it, and I have a feeling those too-Force-sensitive-for-their-own-good children of yours would track you to the ends of the galaxy if you left."

They share an exhausted chuckle. Yes, the Skywalker children are entirely capable of that.

With an affectionate pat to Anakin's shoulder, Obi-Wan treads toward the speeder, the mental drain of the past few hours dragging his pace. His padawan, he knows, needs a moment of solitude.

The only heaviness Anakin feels now lies in his boots, where minute piles of sand have predictably collected.

Tatooine's suns glow across the horizon, gradually floating toward twilight. "What do you think, Mom?" the Son of Suns asks quietly. "Who am I?"

The desert breeze whispers back, a long-ago memory. _What does your heart tell you?_

He crouches to caress her name and snare a glorious bloom for Padme, muttering thickly, "I still miss you. But Luke has a little birthmark on his ankle, like yours. And when Leia cries – which is mostly when she doesn't get what she wants – her eyes crinkle like yours did when you smiled."

He turns from the lonely patch of sand and strides away.

Toward Obi-Wan. Toward the blinding light of the suns. Toward Padme, their children and a boy who needs him.

_Finis. _

_It's all yours, folks. Light up the comment window! _


	16. Chapter 16

_Here's some shameless, fluffy fun with the Skywalker twins, and Ani/Obi find their funny bones again. Hints of a plot here, but we'll wait for the next chapter to dive in. _

_Again, thank you mighty kindly to the following folks who read and reviewed the last chapter: __**angie, Mireilles3 (marathon reviewer extraordinaire!), Raiukage, Eldar-Melda, averyge, Rogue Hellsing, PhantomFan13, sharp52092, QueenYoda, QueenNaberrie, maesde, Mo Angel, elijahlover**__ and __**Haley Renee.**_

_Also, my appreciation to those who continue to favorite and follow. You all rock! And, please, don't stop telling me what you think now…_

_On to Ani/Obi/twins, with no angst in sight. P.S. A greysor is a Nabooian monkey, in case you're wondering. _

Chapter 16

Obi-Wan has just parked the speeder when Luke and Leia tear into the ramshackle garage, their tiny feet shedding sand.

Both barrel straight for their father, squealing at decibels that make Obi-Wan half-convinced they can be heard all the way to Mos Espa.

"Dada, dada, dada!" Anakin can't differentiate which of his children jabbers it, as both have grown gleefully fond of the word. Leia's tugging at his robotic arm and Luke's spindly legs have already trapped one of his, but Anakin laughs despite a shortage of limbs.

"Mm, I see my little ewoks are in sore need of baths and bedtime stories," he greets, mussing Leia's hair, which smells suspiciously of Padme's finest lotion. "I assume you've left your mother and Han in an exhausted heap somewhere."

His daughter warbles something sunny that begins and ends with "Dada!" while sneaking her fingers under his tunic for a tickle. His body groans as if to remind that it remains on the mend, but it's easy to dismiss the creaks with two bubbly children climbing him like he's a Perlote tree.

Anakin manages to wrangle Leia in the crook of his elbow, but Luke's far more interested in channeling a frisky greysor, giggling as he worms his way out of his father's one-armed grasp. Anakin's on his fourth round of catch-the-wiggling-twin when Obi-Wan decides to intervene.

"Now, Luke," the master begins, untangling the squirmy toddler from Anakin's torso, "you must go easy on your father. I wouldn't let him crash anything on the way home, so he's a bit out-of-sorts."

Luke's wide, gap-toothed grin is punctuated with a jovial "Da?" in reply. As each Jedi carries a mini Skywalker toward the hut, the twins burst into gibberish that flows between them in an effortless stream.

"Maybe I just need to catch up, but do you understand them at all when they do that?" Anakin asks, proud and unnerved at the same time.

"Ha!" Obi-Wan rolls his eyes toward Luke, whose cherubic face turns toward the Jedi master with uncanny premonition. _Talking about me?_ the little one seems to guess. "We were hoping you'd be as fluent in toddler-speak as you are in droid-speak."

Leia's stubby fingers pry under her father's shirt, almost as if she's searching for something in the recesses of his pockets. "Sorry," Anakin answers, face scrunching into the silliest expression Obi-Wan's ever seen from him. Then, the boy who had to be coaxed into a smile during his first few weeks at the Temple gives a dead-on impression of an impish ewok, down to high-pitched babble and trilling peals, as Luke and Leia clatter with laughter so sweet their father could cry, if he wasn't so blasted _happy._

Padme greets them in the kitchen with a soft grin that fades quickly into seriousness. Her beauty has always been disarming, but Obi-Wan notices that some of the harshness of Tatooine has dimmed from her face. When she looks upon her husband, as she does now with a glimmer of tenderness, she is simply radiant.

"Everything settled?" she wonders lightly. "No sending you both to your rooms without supper tonight?"

"A minor squabble," her husband quips, sheepish, swinging Leia a few times for maximum delight before depositing her gently to the floor.

"Just like the old days," Obi-Wan adds, relinquishing Luke to join his mother and twin.

"Wonderful!" Padme scatters kisses to all, planting noisy busses to her children's cheeks, brushing Obi-Wan's with a bit more finesse, then gifting her husband with a deeper touch to his lips. "Just in time, too, because we have a bit of a problem."

Gracefully, as the former queen of Naboo does everything, Padme retrieves a piece of wrinkled flimsi that bears a striking photograph of Anakin Skywalker in the resplendent robes of a Jedi, a noble bearing to his pose.

"Handsome devil," the original cracks.

"Oh, _kark,_" Obi-Wan responds, and Padme cannot tell whether his annoyance is with Anakin's flippant jest or the flimsi itself, but a ripple of contentment slips down her spine.

Skywalker and Kenobi, together again. _  
_

"_Language,_ Obi-Wan," she scolds teasingly, gathering the twins to her waist. "Ani, I think we're going to need another pot of caff. After I get these grubby little banthas a bath, we'll all sit down to discuss our next move."

_There's_ that glimpse of the authoritative senator he's missed. But, before Anakin can compliment her leadership abilities – always good for another kiss – his wife has disappeared into the 'fresher, twins in tow.

"Marriage really is harder after you have children," he muses to no one in particular, because Obi-Wan certainly isn't listening. His nose is buried in the flimsi, and he's "mm-hm"ing on words such as "WANTED" and "treasonous," then snorting at the outrageous number in bolded type.

Anakin leans over the Jedi master's shoulder, vision falling on the same line. "Seems a bit low for a – wait, let me find it – 'treasonous former Jedi knight who has acted seditiously against and presents an adherent danger to the ideals of the new Empire.' All those elegant words to say 'bring him in alive and get a meager bounty.'"

"This isn't funny, Anakin."

"Oh, it's a _little_ funny, master. And that's a far better holo image than the one they used in that tabloid Rex handed us on Kamino, remember?" Anakin guffaws at the memory, a scant, lighthearted moment for the weary troops of the 501st regiment during the brutal Clone Wars. "'Ten sexiest Jedi of the Clone Wars,' special edition. Still can't figure out how they got their hands on holos of us with our shirts off."

Anakin strides lazily to the cupboards for a snack, a bit more scuffed and a bucketful wiser, but still the same recklessly-handsome padawan from the tabloid holo.

"After she finally got ahold of me, Padme was absolutely _seething_ – when she wasn't giggling with Sabe over _your_ holo."

"A complete waste of flimsi, if you ask me," Obi-Wan snips, nose wrinkling in distaste. "I've never read so much uncouth innuendo about lightsabers in my life. Disgraceful."

"You're just upset because Master Windu came in ahead of you." For a split second, Anakin winces at his mention of the deceased Jedi master, pushes the sobering thought aside for now. "And his 'lightsaber' was voted 'most likely to start an all-female inter-galactic conflict.'" Pause. Shrug. "If it makes you feel better, Padme and Sabe thought your sixth-place finish was entirely unwarranted."

"Sabe?" Obi-Wan blurts, a flush of crimson sweeping from his neck to his forehead. Obviously, a nerve has been jigged. Good to know.

"Remember how, um, _popular _we were after that tabloid came out? Talk about uncouth innuendo every time we went out among civilians – "

There's a smirk of mischief from Obi-Wan. "Ah, yes. 'I promise not to touch your lightsaber… well, not _that _one…'"

"'Is a General's lightsaber bigger than a normal one…?'" A pick-up line proffered brazenly toward Anakin in a seedy tavern on Valhari.

Obi-Wan harrumphs deep in this throat, mimicking, "'My sister has a _thing_ for little green Jedi!'"

They dissolve into laughter, the authentic kind rarely allowed in the stuffy Temple and rarely indulged in the killing fields of the Clone War. There's a tinge of melancholy to it now; maybe someday they'll be able to savor these moments without the bite of sorrow for those lost.

"Here I was, actually _proud_ of you for setting a good example by not, um, partaking in casual pleasures of the flesh," Obi-Wan scowls indignantly. "How ironic that you weren't being a model Jedi, but a model _husband_!"

"Good thing Padme knows nothing of the occasions you encouraged me to – how did you put it, master? – 'relieve the extreme stress of war with an evening of feminine companionship.'" Anakin smacks Obi-Wan's knee with much less force than his wife would, given the knowledge of such matters.

Obi-Wan swats him back. "Little did I know, you were actually taking my advice – every time we returned to Coruscant!"

Anakin's grin turns shifty. "There _was_ that other time when the senators were sent to Mon Eron to monitor the refugee situation, and Padme managed to hop a transport at the last minute…'"

Obi-Wan clasps a hand over his mouth. "I _sent_ you to escort the dignitaries to their accommodations! You didn't come back to the bridge until the next morning… _late_ the next morning, at that! Droid problems, my astromech – "

Anakin chuckles, heartily, and his eyes go a bit waspish remembering that glorious snippet of time in a cramped statesroom with his beloved. "With the warmest respects to my lovely wife, those were the best few hours I've ever spent on a Republic base, hands down." He bows to his elder, smile as broad as Luke's earlier, and Obi-Wan flashes to the likeness of a dashing young gentleman with Padme's steel and Anakin's bravura, twenty years from now.

How these vivacious, cocky, lionhearted Skywalker boys lodge themselves completely under his skin…

"Just make the caff, Anakin," Obi-Wan instructs, playfulness draining as he clenches the flimsi between his fingers.

"Unfortunately, your wife is right. We have much to discuss."

_Finis. _

_Note to QueenYoda: You were absolutely right about the last chapter; this story could've ended quite well with the last few paragraphs. It would've tied things up nicely and the rest of it rattling around in my head could've been addressed in sequels._

_Except, that idea frankly scared me a bit. Sometimes, I look at this story and am amazed that I've managed to keep it going through 16 chapters, as I pretty much make at least half of it up as I go. I don't want you to think I dismissed your idea, because it was brilliant, but I'm better off rolling on as planned. _

_See? I listen. Sometimes! _


	17. Chapter 17

_As always, kudos to those who read, respond and fill my email with fun: Mireilles3, QueenNaberrie (loved talking HC with you!), Raiukage, Eldar-Melda, The Kinetic Violinist, Haley Renee, PhantomFan13, Voldy's pink teddy, maesde, WildHorseFantasy and QueenYoda rocked it this chapter. A cute stuffed ewok for you all…_

_On with the story: News of a fledgling alliance pushes Ani's buttons, and Han discovers a truth he never wanted to know. See? I can craft a plot (but there's a truckload of angst, too)…_

Chapter 17

Anakin emerges from the twins' bedroom wearing the look of a beleaguered, yet fulfilled father. Three verses of their trademark bedtime song last night, then four tonight, and he senses they've still not yet settled into sleep.

It's almost starting to feel like _work,_ this parent thing.

As if intercepting his thoughts, Padme appraises him with a private smile. Then turns her brisk attention to the flimsi, honing in on her husband's likeness. "Much better than the shirtless image they used in that tasteless 'ten sexiest Jedi' rubbish."

"Hey!" Anakin is mildly insulted. "You're not supposed to think any holo of me is rubbish, especially one glorifying my specific… attributes."

Eyes dropping to one of those _attributes_, Padme emits a breathy sound that encourages a string of the most pleasant shivers in her husband. Palm gliding delicately from his nape in a flirty brush to his shoulder, she clarifies, "I didn't object to the image, just that it was broadcast to every excitable female in the galaxy."

Obi-Wan notes with amazement how little time it took for Padme Amidala Naberrie Skywalker to corral her ruffled husband firmly back to where she wanted him.

Wrapped around her regal little pinkie.

"Would you two stop? We need focus, and Anakin's thoughts are… _frazzled_, at the moment." A slate of better-suited adjectives come to mind, but Obi-Wan is too chivalrous to repeat them in Padme's presence.

_Behave._ He shoots Anakin a glare conveying his former padawan's fortune that his wife doesn't possess the Force abilities to interpret his thoughts.

_Maybe,_ Anakin fires back, then drifts lazily to the business at hand. Flimsi. Wanted alive. Big trouble. Right.

A smaller pair of hands, fingernails soiled and knuckles scuffed, joins Anakin's in the cupboards. "About time you guys got back," Solo admonishes, displeasure at being left behind with two crawlers, a former queen and a pair of somewhat annoying droids apparent in his scowl. "How's the speeder running?"

Anakin notes that he doesn't even blink in Obi-Wan's direction, though the two spent the last fortnight buried in vehicle. "Purred a bit like a nexu – a little dangerous, but smooth. _Obi-Wan's_ gotten much better with mechanics," Anakin compliments, lightly kicking the boy's boot, which is every bit as nicked as his hand.

Solo beams a crooked grin. "I think we finally tweaked the crankshaft just right, gave it a little boost," he says, snagging the flimsi from the table. "Nice holo. Lots better than that stoopa 'sexy Jedi' one all the girls were drooling over in Corellia."

"I keep hearing that," Anakin says dryly, cerulean eyes rolling toward his wife.

"Y'know what they called you after that, right? The hero with the big – "

"Han!" Obi-Wan and Anakin's voices rise in a single, outraged yelp.

" – lightsaber," the boy completes, unperturbed, as he casually pops a few pallies into his mouth. "Geez, what'd ya think I was gonna say?"

"Ahem," Obi-Wan interrupts again, demeanor shifting to the stalwart poise of the Great Negotiator. "Han, perhaps you'd like to examine an interesting collection of lightsaber parts on my workbench downstairs. To quench your curiosity."

The pre-teen does an admirable job feigning ignorance to Obi-Wan's suggestion. Instead, he strolls to the caff and pours a hearty cup, practically daring Obi-Wan and Padme to object.

Anakin toys absently with an empty mug, eyes avoiding Solo's, which glitter with a familiar devilry. "Building a lightsaber is a bit different from fixing a speeder, Han. Just don't touch the crystals." If his intent is to sway Solo's interest from what has the makings of a humdinger of a conversation, Anakin's enticement is poorly sold, his tone distinctly bored.

Solo's mouth twitches with a hint of sass. "Oh, no you don't. What, I'm good enough to get you outta a war zone swarmin' with Imps and fly you home – the _Falcon_ was as fast as my guardian said, by the way – but I'm patted on my arse and sent to my room with the crawlers when you talk strategy? Uh-uh, boss-man. I'm_ in_."

Obi-Wan gives his beard a solemn stroke. Oh, young one, he thinks, you'll wish you weren't so adventurous. Even those of us who _are_ in this would give almost anything to recuse ourselves.

There's an air of inevitability about Anakin as he sets his shoulders straight. He doesn't wish to exclude the boy; truth is, Solo's been submerged in this ugly business since Anakin plucked him from the seedy Corellian tavern. And he's an enviable sidekick – swift to act, yet smart, with peerless nerve for one so young.

A bit like himself, at that age.

But the boy knows only selected bits of a deplorable history Anakin would just as soon bury in the endless sands of this planet. Once Solo learns the truth of repulsive nightmares made real through Anakin's fall, will he regard the Jedi with such worship?

Anakin runs his robotic hand through his hair, sets his mouth as firm as his frame and makes a decision. Omissions walk the same path as lies, and he's had his fill of both.

He grips the boy's forearm with affection and slides Obi-Wan a resigned grimace. "Yes, Han, you're in. You've more than earned it."

The boy whoops like he's just won the most lucrative hand of sabacc, eyes crinkling with anticipation. The four settle somewhat grimly around the kitchen table, Obi-Wan flanked by Anakin and Han as he mentally assesses his reconnaissance, much as he had through three dragging years of the Clone Wars.

"Needless to say, we have quite a dilemma now that the Empire has publicized its pursuit of you, Anakin. And, since nearly every bounty hunter looking to collect the reward – as well as the swagger of capturing the Hero With No Fear – has ties to this planet, our departure must be swift."

Anakin concurs with a nod, stretching his hand to cover Padme's. Solo takes a swift inventory of items that can be bartered, traded or sold outright, noting that a former queen should have some swanky jewels or other royal trinkets that can fetch handsome prices.

"Any chance of re-acquiring the _Millennium Falcon_? Public transport seems risky." Anakin rumples the flimsi with a troubled crunch. "Unfortunately, sexy Jedi such as Obi-Wan and myself are far too recognizable nowadays." He winks teasingly at Padme. "And my lovely wife always attracts far too much attention for my liking."

Obi-Wan does not react to the verbal play, already ensconced in the mindset of military readiness. "I was too engaged in mind-tricking the lowlife on Mos Espa while I dragged you from the ship. Han handled negotiations with a smuggler from Hoth, I believe. It didn't look like you had time for small talk."

The boy shakes his head. "Nope. With any luck, the _Falcon_'s still docked in that dustbowl hanger. Stealing it back should be easy for a couple of Jedi. Sneaking two crawlers and a woman inside?" The look Solo sends across the table seems to draw the three males into a nefarious camaraderie. "That's where the fun begins."

"Travel separately?" Anakin suggests to Obi-Wan, steeling himself as Padme's temper kindles in an instant. "You and Padme have been seen together, so it wouldn't spark interest on a public transport. Han and I could follow, hopefully in the _Falcon_."

Anakin doesn't have to spare his wife a glance to know she's already forming a rational argument, but his own legendary stubbornness is flaming, as well. He will not compromise when it comes to his family's safe passage.

"He's right." Obi-Wan brings Padme a prepared cup of caff, a subtle apology. "I know it's not ideal, Padme, but smaller groups move more freely, and with less suspicion."

Padme's hand stirs under Anakin's, moving slowly to draw his fingers into hers until their knuckles align in a gesture of solidarity. "Move freely toward what?" she questions, momentarily wistful for the sandy dunes of Tatooine, an infertile wasteland that has witnessed both the blessings and the tragedies of the Skywalker family. "For all of its shortcomings, Tatooine's lawlessness _has _shielded us from the Empire."

_Isn't that the million-credit question,_ Anakin projects through the Force, causing Obi-Wan to shrug. With the drama of Anakin's emotional return ensnaring their full attentions, they've had little occasion to discuss anything but raw survival.

"There have been… inquiries from dissidents within the Senate," Obi-Wan begins, sorting his words carefully. Padme visibly flinches at the mention of her colleagues, many of whom fled Coruscant after Sidious' brutal seizure of power. Those who have placed themselves in overt jeopardy by remaining, such as Mon Mothma and Bail Organa, have her fervent respect, even as guilt at choosing her children's well-being above her duty gnaws like a festering wound.

"Inquiries?" Anakin asks, a hint of wariness in his tone.

"Some who signed the Petition of 2000 refused to recant," Obi-Wan informs. Anakin doesn't bother asking whether Senator Amidala's name remains on the document meant to openly defy the former chancellor; he knows his wife too well. "Mon Mothma, in particular, has continued to challenge the Empire. A handful of those loyal to the Republic stand behind her." His eyes skitter from the Skywalkers, landing, after a moment, on his former padawan with steely focus. "They've been waiting for an event to bring the disjointed factions of resistance together; something decisive, and daring, with such glaring dissent that it resonates throughout the galaxy."

A fissure of electricity sparks in the humid air, seeming to suspend even the grains of ever-present sand as understanding dawns first on Padme, then dominoes to Anakin and Solo.

"They're ready to unite, Anakin." The former padawan remains atypically silent, but Obi-Wan senses a burgeoning rumble of unease within the Force. "If this fledgling rebellion is to solidify, it must have a military leader with both courage and cunning; someone who would single-handedly launch a brash offensive in the core of the Empire itself."

"No." Solo feels himself startle at the brittle snap of Anakin's tone, and did the dusky floor just tremble beneath his boots? It isn't fear that emanates from the stoic Jedi warrior. Kark, he's the _Chosen One_! If anyone can give the rebellion the swift kick in the pants it sorely needs, it's Anakin kriffin' Skywalker!

The hero in question shakes his head firmly. "I cannot have a role in the rebellion, Obi-Wan. You _know_ why that's not possible."

"Like it or not, Anakin, you already do," Obi-Wan counters smoothly. "Your mini rebellions have not gone unnoticed, my friend. The raid on the supply freighter in Bellassa was brilliantly executed, and you took out three of Sidious' best legions on Kessel with just your lightsaber and Artoo. That was after you destroyed Sidious' superweapon on Belsavis, of course."

To the utter bafflement of Han Solo, Anakin becomes increasingly incensed as his ragtag achievements are catalogued, a rush of crimson sweeping up his angled cheekbones, muscles drawing taut. "You _know_ why I had to launch those attacks! It certainly wasn't to be a one-man subversive!" Anakin turns to his wife, gentling his flesh-hand over her wrist, notes the tears tangling in her lashes.

"You were drawing Sidious away from Padme and the twins," Obi-Wan reasons, voice soothing as Anakin's discomfort storms within the Force. "But Mothma doesn't know that, nor does Organa." The master's thoughts cloud, roaming to a den of secrets on the secluded base of Polis Massa. Padme had been in no condition to explain the telltale outline of a human hand amid the purple on her neck, and Obi-Wan, devastated, had assisted her birthing through a trancelike haze. Only at Yoda's unthinkable suggestion that the newborn Skywalkers be whisked to polar ends of the galaxy without their mother had Obi-Wan regained enough faculties to vigorously oppose it.

At risk is the here and now, Obi-Wan reminds himself; the tiny boy he'd cradled before either of his parents slumbers close, still in dire need of protection. "In the eyes of those who followed the victories of the Hero With No Fear and still believe in the destiny of the Chosen One, Anakin Skywalker must be a prominent part of this alliance if it is to have any chance at all."

Anakin shoves away from the table, long legs unfolding to stomp into the living quarters, a pulse of anxiety trailing in his wake. Padme looks as if she's been physically struck, her flawless skin suddenly ashen as she sits ramrod-straight; this is one discussion that her talents in diplomacy and negotiation have no business influencing.

"Sidious is not dead, Obi-Wan." Anakin's voice is too quiet.

The master has suspected as much, even trickled out feelers to confirm it, to no avail. "There's been no word of his death on the holonet, but I'd hardly expect the Empire to trumpet such news, especially with no obvious successor."

Solo catches surreptitious glances flitting quickly between the Jedi.

"He's alive." Anakin's whisper is so low that it is heard only by Obi-Wan; he reiterates it with edgy emphasis. Tension crackles in the air as Anakin's robotic hand knots, adrenaline coating the blood racing in his veins. "His injuries are extensive, but he will recover."

Solo's body inches unconsciously toward Anakin until the boy is nearly hanging from his seat. "How do you know?" he asks, transfixed. "You didn't see Imp central, Ani – you really lit it up. Smoke, durasteel, bodies everywhere. I think you got 'im."

Anakin's throat constricts as he turns deliberately from the three, stiffly gathering himself to, once again, become the instrument of irrevocable harm.

"I know he's alive, Han," confesses the one who feels so far from a chosen one or a hero that he can only grit the words with labored pants, "because I am bonded to Sidious by the Dark Side." One beat, one harsh breath. One more second before Solo's view of Anakin Skywalker shatters, forever.

"For forty-eight hours, I was Darth Vader, apprentice of Darth Sidious. My reasons for pledging myself to the Sith do not excuse my actions. I was complicit in the murder of Jedi Master Mace Windu. I led the Jedi purge by storming the Temple and murdering all who were not fortunate enough to escape – "

"Vader?" The lore of the mysterious Sith's deadly deeds lingers throughout the galaxy, despite Vader's abrupt disappearance more than eighteen months earlier. "_What?_ Are you… pullin' my kriffin' leg?" Solo bursts, eyes veering wildly to Ani's best friend and wife to dispel this… this… obscenity of speech.

" – I killed many of the younglings myself, and some initiates, and a few masters who could probably have escaped, but attempted to rescue the others – "

Solo's blood seems to congeal within his body, each individual cell frozen in stark horror. "I'm not laughing _at all_, so cut this the frack out, all right?" Desperately, the boy seizes the sleeve of Padme's shabby blouse, wondering why Ani's wife looks so… calm… but those _are_ tears hanging on the fringes of her eyes and her small hands_ are_ quaking as she reaches with compassion toward Solo, but something erupts within him and he furiously rejects the gesture.

Obi-Wan can only stare in numb fascination. It's one thing to view the Temple slaughter through blue-tinged holos from Artoo's lens; it's quite another for the butchering to come alive through his former padawan's explicit description.

Anakin's frame remains as rigid as it was when acknowledging salutes from his troops. But his voice is as robotic as his durasteel arm, a droning caricature of the valiant Hero With No Fear.

" – I don't remember if I gave the order to incinerate the Temple, but the fire was set under my command. Then I was sent to Mustafar, where I murdered ten Separatist leaders before the arrival of a Nabooian ship – "

Padme's rosy cheeks become pallid, a dryness akin to sawdust lining her throat. The sinister events of Mustafar live in the minds of just three people, all of whom would offer the moons of every planet for a chance to restart the crono. Dragging these bruising memories to the surface now will serve only to stagnate their suffering, grind Anakin's self-punishment deeper within his ravaged soul. "_Don't,_ Ani," she pleads as Obi-Wan rises in an attempt to silence him.

"What else?" The petulant growl comes from Solo, hunched and grasping his seat as if clinging to a tangible object can somehow rewind these admonitions. He seems much older than ten years, now, even if his voice squeaks with callow youth. "What else did you do?"

_Stop,_ Obi-Wan begs through the Force, sending waves of tranquility to quell Anakin's latent, simmering shame. _For your own sake, Anakin, stop this._

_I cannot, _whispers back._ Part of what nearly destroyed me was keeping the lies safe, as if they were somehow precious, rather than dripping with poison. _

Anakin's lower lip trembles, but he cements the soles of his feet and his mouth manages to eke out the words.

" – Padme tried to find me in the madman I had become. She was so _beautiful,_ so full with our little ones_,_ but I was too consumed to see…" His voice hitches as he weathers the recrimination of Solo's eyes searing through him.

"I was beyond reason. When Obi-Wan appeared, I thought I had been betrayed." There's no mistaking the irony of betrayer accusing betrayal. "I Force-choked my wife, nearly killed her and my children." Padme's muffled sobs punctuate the air like the vicious thrust of a knife. "I would have tried to kill Obi-Wan, greedy as I was to show my _master_ the supremacy of my new powers – "

"Enough, Anakin," Obi-Wan barks as Solo gapes, then the Corellian's mouth curls in scorn. "Enough!"

" – You let me _go_, Ani," Padme insists urgently, approaching her husband with steps so deft they are soundless. His eyes, though hooded with desolation, shine the same sparkling blue as their son's. "You sensed the light in our children, and you found it in yourself." She places a palm on each shoulder, and Anakin feels less a beast and more a man in her petite hands. "You came back."

He turns into her embrace and she feels his body surrender, one sinewy fiber at a time, until he is boneless and shuddering, his breath heavy on her neck. His head nestles in the crook of her collarbone, eyes closed but spilling droplets that seep into her skin. He clutches her with a child's vulnerability, his large body exhaling flaccidly into hers as if it has simply lost its ability to hold itself.

"Until I said it out loud, I could almost fool myself into thinking it wasn't me," he rasps, lifting his head until his eyes are level with his wife's. A tender fingertip follows the trail of a single tear down her cheek, then a matching droplet on his, mingling their sorrow. "I nearly killed you. I would have killed myself. Without you and our children, I would be Vader. A Sith." He cups her cheeks with both hands, but not too tightly; she must never be afraid again. "A _monster_."

Like the Force, the sensations of her all around him – silky ringlets brushing his nape, warmth of her lithe frame dwarfed in his, tendrils of her love holding his heart steady – provide a comfort that defies description. But she is insignificant within the Force, a being of no gravity save a wondrous, undeserved belief that anchors his troubled soul.

Better. Within the loving vibrancy of his family, she thinks he can be a better Jedi, father, man.

"It wasn't Anakin Skywalker," Padme declares in a tremulous murmur. "It was Vader, and Vader is gone." Proclaiming it before her Nabooian goddesses and his transcendent Force banishes her doubts from this moment forward. "_You_ are my Ani; the son of Shmi, the father of Luke and Leia, the brother of Obi-Wan. That will always be your truth."

He feverishly hopes to justify her faith, will work tirelessly earning it for the rest of his days. If he must bare his sins to the alliance and beg its forgiveness to rebuild what his madness destroyed, he will try, with Padme and Obi-Wan by his side.

_Do or do not,_ Obi-Wan instructs through the Force with a pang of whimsy. _There is no try. _

"We should head for Alderaan," the Jedi Master remarks after a time, resuming the conversation with understated finesse. "According to Bail Organa, a framework for an alliance loyal to the Republic is amassing there. We will be welcome."

Anakin nods, pulling himself from the reverie with more ease than expected. "They may have help within the Empire itself. I've seen some of the remnants of the 501st during my skirmishes. A few, namely Rex and Fives, would not engage me, despite their orders."

Obi-Wan's eyebrow arches in surprise. "Is that so? I wonder how many of our former brothers in arms feel the same. Clones, indeed." His silvery-sage eyes glint with a fondness Anakin had craved as a padawan. "We'll decide what to tell the alliance, and how, when the time comes. It'll be all right."

Anakin is about to respond, Padme snuggled deeper in his arms, as a sharp rumble sounds from the kitchen. When their attentions swing back to Solo, the young Corellian is towering on every inch of his outrage and spitting with belligerent contempt.

"Are you people all out of your mother frackin' minds?"

_to be continued…_

_Sometimes I'm a sneaky wench. See how this chapter started out? So cozy with the jovial extended Skywalkers and their endless lightsaber jokes. Then, the boom is lowered on poor Han Solo and the Kenobi hut is once again an angsty mess. Sorry – it had to be done, because Han is nobody's fool. And Ani… well, guilt isn't done with him yet. But I am at your mercy; please let the feedback flourish._


	18. Chapter 18

_I haven't done the disclaimer thing in a few chapters, so… I don't own any of these marvelous characters. The brilliant Flanneled One created them; I merely borrow to exercise my creative muscle._

_Faithful readers, followers and favorite-ers, you continue to inspire and give me that nudge I sorely need when I'm stuck in a chapter. Thank you, __**Mo Angel, Rogue Hellsing, Eldar-Melda, Mireilles3, Guest, PhantomFan13, Raiukage **__and__** QueenNaberrie**__ for sticking with me. _

_Now, my apologies as I hop on my writer's soapbox for a minute. If you take time to read an author's work, I humbly ask that you take a minute more to send him/her a bit of feedback. I can't tell you what a boost a few words, whether complimentary or (productively) critical, give those of us who sometimes struggle to translate this stuff from our heads to this site. In other words, you're our kick in the pants, and we like to be kicked! __Your feedback really is invaluable._

_Now, for those who wondered where in the heck Han Solo went in previous chapters, well, he's front-and-center in this one. Enjoy!_

Chapter 18

"_Are you people all out of your mother frackin' minds?"_

If Solo had a blaster, it would be aimed unerringly at somebody's forehead because, obviously, these people are all fracked.

Once the implausible fragments of the situation settle into place, his brain registers that the Chosen One is, in actuality, the _Evil_ One and these other two are beyond loopy. And somebody has to look out for the little crawlers, because they _cannot _be left with these Circus Horrificus rejects.

One of whom, apparently, has ginormous Force-powers from both the light _and_ the dark, which can probably transform the likes of him into krayt kibble real quick.

Kriff, and it absolutely _grates _Solo to admit this, but Garris Shrike was right about one thing when he bitched while flipping through a stash of illegal credits gleaned from a spice run:

_Let me tell you something useful, Corellian scum. You can't trust anyone in this rotten galaxy. _

He knows he's not Corellian scum, but now he's learned a little something about trust. And appearances. Because, not once since Anakin Skywalker befriended him on his native planet, tailored his own clothing to fit a ten-year-old's scrawny frame, gotten him out of a few hairy scrapes and pledged to help find him a home, had Solo made the Jedi for a frost-blooded killer.

Vape you to every Corellian hell, Shrike, but if you're the one I should've listened to, then there really is no one I can trust.

Solo answers his own question before the trio can address it. "You _are_ all out of your frackin' minds. And then some. I can't believe I – " His eyes sear a scurrilous path toward the person attracting his ire, and Anakin has the decency to exude a spectrum of shame.

Obi-Wan approaches the boy with the cautious manner of defusing a ticking bomb, so acute is the irrationality and naked _hurt_ rolling off the boy. As one who's had more than a standard year to analyze such emotions, the Jedi master marvels that Solo hasn't started swinging.

It would've done Obi-Wan a lot of good, back then.

"Han," the master begins in a measured tone, beckoning Anakin to stay put even as his former padawan's anxious impulses to _fix_ _this_ roil within the Force, "what you've just heard is a lot to process. Anakin did submit to the Dark Side for a brief period of time; just forty-eight hours, in fact – "

"Yeah, but Sith are really _efficient_," Solo snarls, nothing but this loathsome imitation of a hero filling his vision. Anakin offers no rebuttal, feels himself almost dwindling with each moment the boy's glare of repugnance exiles him to Solo's innate list of Shiks Who Can't Be Trusted. "I mean, look at all you got done in just a coupla days! Republic out, Empire in; Jedi snuffed, ugly Sith with a throne aaaaall to himself – " his blue eyes gloss with obvious spite " – but, hey, I guess you gotta murder a few innocents and choke a few wives to be a sidekick these days, don'tcha?"

If Solo was a peer, Anakin would divest Padme's firm holds on both his shoulder and his robotic arm to make him accountable for those words, but all Anakin can see – through the contorted mouth curved into a sneer, coiled muscles and eyes dulled with sheer repulsion – is a jaded young one twisting in fright.

It isn't every day that a scamp of a boy who's spent a lifetime convincing himself he relies on no one, admires no one and certainly aspires to be no one loses his reluctant idolatry in one fell swoop.

Besides, that last scathing sentence is one Anakin could easily imagine coming from his own smart-ass mouth.

Anakin reaches for the serene confines of the Force, summons his fortitude and culls a newfound appreciation for what he'd often considered Obi-Wan's _lack_ of patience when he was a pre-teen. He begins with reason; "I understand your anger…"

And ignores Solo's snark of "Gee, thanks," though Anakin's temple is pounding like one of those rhythmic drums of which the Wookies are so fond, "… and I don't expect you to understand my reasons, because there aren't any that justify what I did in the short time I was Vader." His fingers squeeze Padme's as Obi-Wan's encouragement fortifies their Force-bond. "All I can ask you to do is trust that every pulse of my heart is, and will remain, Anakin Skywalker."

The boy juts his pointed chin, nearly as smooth as Luke's, in impudence. "Well, I don't."

Hardly surprising, given the jarring reversal of identity that's been rudely presented to him. It's taken more than a standard year and plenty of provocative discussion for Padme and Obi-Wan to reach their current states of acceptance.

"Understandable. I'll have to earn that again." A prolonged, searching look passes between the two Jedi and the senator. "I'll ask you to remember the person you've come to know, starting on that barstool in Corellia. That was _me_, Han, I promise you."

Is there a hint of softening in those granite-like eyes? For one so young, Solo has matched Anakin's fabled obstinacy, and then some. "Yeah, well, you talk a good game, but how do I know you won't get all Vader-esque when you need a little Dark Side power boost?"

When Anakin's thirteen-year-old outlook became particularly temperamental, he used to hear Obi-Wan counting methodically through the Force. Anakin reaches eight before the technique drives him a bit batty. "All I can do is tell you it won't happen. You'll have to – " here's that word again " – trust me."

Solo's reply is predicated by an exaggerated thrust of his hip, a clench of his jaw and an eyeroll that could be glimpsed in Mos Espa. "I already told you I don't trust you."

If this is how absolutely maddening Luke and Leia will be when they enter their tenth years, Anakin notes that he'd better stock up on that pungent Corellian liquor he's spied in the uppermost shelves of the kitchen. Verbally sparring with this boy is _exhausting_.

"Well, then, I'd say we're at an impasse. I don't expect you to follow someone you cannot implicitly trust; I certainly wouldn't." Anakin frowns, at a loss to brainstorm his next course of action, even as he's reminded that his own situation has been compromised by a very public flimsi; this dispute must be dissolved, and quickly.

As the boy fidgets, weight shifting from one worn boot to the other, Anakin is reminded of the hungry urchin he encountered in Corellia. Despite his bluster, Solo is every inch the gawky young orphan he appears.

"My guardian, Shrike, he was a mean shik, looking to pad his own pocket by usin' everyone else. If I ever see 'im again, I hope it's at his funeral and I get first rights to everything in his pockets." The boy's thoughts wander to his home planet, to his guardian's callous words even when he'd done exactly what Shrike ordered, and the days it sometimes took to speak without the aftereffects of Shrike's vicious backhands.

"He hardly ever dusted anyone who didn't have it comin' 'cause they came at us first." The boy's eyes close and, for an appalling second, Obi-Wan wonders exactly how many "dustings" Solo had witnessed. "And kids – he'd backhand us when he was steamed or messed up on whiskey, but he never…"

Cleaved them efficiently through with a lightsaber. Coldly appraised their broken bodies strewn in slick pools of blood. Looked them unblinkingly in the eye before…

The impact of voiceless musings reverberates throughout the room. Obi-Wan winces uncomfortably and Anakin's terse silence rings throughout the Force. The senator from Naboo, more accustomed to weathering strained moments, awaits its passage with head slightly bowed.

Solo studies his fallen paragon with the galaxy-wary expression of a hardened smuggler. "How do we know you won't get all yellow-eyed the first time wrinkle face offers you a planet, or a souped-up fighter, or something?"

An overtaxed band in Anakin's tautly-reigned temper cracks in time with his patience. Every wasted moment, he knows, brings bounty hunters starved for credits and dubious glory too much closer to his family.

"Well, if I'm ever tempted, I guess I'll have to come up with something better than _blowing myself up_," the Jedi snaps, annoyance infiltrating his tone. Before he can elaborate in a more useful manner, however, his head tilts as if to discern a vague stirring...

A wave of restlessness brushes Anakin through the Force, easing the tension on his face as he deduces the source. If he focuses intently enough, he can see a tiny angel's golden eyes fluttering as she drifts reluctantly awake in her crib, alertness growing as she stretches into their bond.

Three, two, one…

"Leia," he announces just as his daughter's cry resounds from the twins' bedroom. With a sly glance, Padme elbows him, something distinctly strategic in her eyes. He nods, hasn't even taken two strides beyond the living area when Solo impulsively darts into his path, wedging himself between the towering Jedi and the bedroom while barking insistently, "No! They've got that Force thing, like the kids at the Temple. You – " an accusatory finger points toward Anakin " – you would've killed them, too!"

_He dares to stand between you and your flesh? The ramifications of such insolence cannot be slight. _

Where did _that_ come from? Stunned, Anakin backtracks; not from the boy – who, at more than a standard foot shorter and considerably smaller in stature, is a laughable barricade – but from the quicksilver jab of that _presence_ swirling ominously through the Force.

Except this time, Obi-Wan's heard it, too; his _go to your daughter_ command is brusque. The Jedi master also transfers his weight to the balls of his feet, a reflexive movement of readiness, even though both Jedi comprehend that a threat is not physically inherent.

Solo stands his ground, slight and unprepared as he is to repel a superbly-trained Jedi at the pinnacle of his skills. "I don't get the political frack of all this and I've done some pretty shady things, too, but, I mean… they were _kids_!" It's both a biting accusation and a baleful lament. "Like me. _Better _than me, because they never would've ended up hustling in backstreet bars and smuggler's ships. They were being taught to protect the whole galaxy! They were just kids and you…"

Padme steps forward, mindful that both the levels of testosterone in the room and the decibels of her daughter's squalling have spiraled. She shoves her husband gently toward the twins' room – "You, tend to Leia" – even as she mentally prepares for a delicate round of negotiations. If she could foster a treaty between Nyriaan and the Mining Guild, well, she can certainly referee this.

"Obi-Wan, Han, come with me to the table and Ani will join us when Leia is settled."

Solo stands just as resolutely, the ends of his sable hair that tend to poke comically upward just reaching the Jedi's chest. "Don't you _care_ that he might hurt them? Those Jedi at the Temple – he trained with them, and ate at the same table, and fought right next to them. I'm sure _they_ trusted him like you do – until he activated that blasted lightsaber!"

He should be seething at this, Anakin thinks as a torrent of aggression rises within him and begins to whorl savagely through his veins, a fiery accelerant that whispers for punishment. He should be spitting, and fighting, and vibrating with rage that _anyone_, especially a mere boy whom he could squash like a sand fly would even attempt to keep him from his children.

Except, _he_ isn't.

Darth Vader's hand would be twitching on his saber, but Anakin Skywalker passes his weapon to Obi-Wan, then takes one sedate, deliberate step toward the boy, maintaining visual contact so Solo has an unhindered view of his eyes. Gingerly, Anakin settles a hand on Solo's shoulder, projecting calm reassurance.

"Thank you for wanting to protect my children, Han." Leia calls for her father by name now, a single, childish syllable that, when repeated, serves as an unmistakable message to the well-intentioned Corellian. "But they do not fear me, and they will never have a reason to. Nor will anyone else, except those who would harm the ones I love." His robotic hand feels strangely warm. "That includes you, son."

Solo's bravura deflates at Leia's innocent babbles. Anakin waits for him to step aside, rather than striding past as he well could, and directs a respectful nod to Solo before proceeding to the bedroom with a genial "_Coming_, my princess."

The boy seems hesitant to relinquish his ground, even as the lyrical banter of father placating daughter echoes through the kitchen.

"He can't just mind-trick it away," the boy mutters, neither defeated nor defiant anymore, "or make me forget that Skywalker and Vader are the same man."

The Jedi master sighs in that placid way of his, gives his beard a thoughtful stroke. He ponders how often the sentiment will repeat when Anakin's past is revealed to those within the alliance. "No," he concurs, finally, glancing at the boy who is far too insightful for his own good.

His mind lingers on Qui-Gon, of their unshakable bond that guides Obi-Wan still; on Shmi Skywalker's stoic goodbye to her son, who was every bit as plucky and clever as Solo; on an aching spectre of heartbreak in Padme that had splintered her joy from the moment of her children's birth.

"Nor does his darkness eclipse fifteen years of service, and sacrifice, and utmost courage in the midst of war. Judge as you will, young Solo, but you are not a man yet."

His smile is unabashedly broad as Anakin appears in the doorway, a sleepily-content Leia snuggled against his chest. She jabbers sweetly of "dada" and "Obi," until the Jedi master simply must open his own arms to this little one who represents something precious he'll probably never have.

"She was starting to wake Luke," Anakin offers, handing off his wriggling daughter and relishing the transfer almost as much as the recipient. The moment's affection is contagious; Padme leans serenely into her husband as contrition rumbles through Solo.

For a cheeky boy who's kept himself breathing on the backbone of his snap judgments, this one is perplexing. Sith lords don't blow juicy kisses on the toes of giggling one-year-olds, as disarmingly cute as it is; Jedi masters don't fuss about "lullabies getting old" and start humming new ones, even if Obi-Wan seems more relaxed than Solo's seen him yet; and Republic senators/super-secret wives don't get all blubbery while marveling to their super-secret Jedi/Sith husbands and watching this entire freakshow unfold.

_Let me tell you something useful, Corellian scum. You can't trust anyone in this rotten galaxy. _

Solo is _not_ Corellian scum.

And maybe – just maybe – Shrike was wrong.

x x x

Anakin has just lowered Leia back into her crib – don't jostle or it'll be another round of Obi-Wan's lousy singing, he tells himself – when Padme summons him with news that Kitster's made contact.

He captures his wife's dainty wrist, brushes a whispery kiss on the underside. "Looks like the reprieve is over."

Kitster confirms it over the comm. "We've got Imps in Mos Espa," he informs, voice terse through the static. "Luckily, their first stop was a business run by my people. They're in a hurry, wouldn't take a suggestion to wait until morning to start looking."

Anakin curses, while Obi-Wan's mouth forms a grim line. "How many?"

"A half-dozen; think it's a recon team. Sounds like more are waiting if they find something to hunt. Don't worry; their speeder will have unforeseen mechanical problems that'll keep 'em busy most of the night and well into tomorrow. We've got a head start."

Kitster, ever-practical. "Thanks, Kit. We'll leave within the hour. Is the _Falcon_ still in the hangar, by chance?"

Somehow, Anakin knows his dark-haired pal is smirking. "Yep. Shame that no one warned these offworlders how rampant theft is in Mos Espa. Especially freighters that fly like starfighters." There's a rustle of paper, no doubt forged documents needed for hasty travel. "What about that Corellian boy, Ani? If he's coming with us, get him here as soon as you can. We'll be on your heels."

The trio can practically hear the scratchy crawl of sand dusting the floor as Anakin eyes Solo for a response. _You said you were in,_ the pointed look conveys. _Time to sink or swim in the desert, my friend. _

"Give us a minute on that, Kit. Do you have enough transports to get your people out safely? We can spare a few seats on the_ Falcon_."

"Nah, we'll be fine. Just comm when you land so I don't waste my fugitive planning time worrying about your sorry arse." The man laughs, but it's laced with wistful disappointment. "It was a pipe dream for a couple of slaves, eh, Ani? Rid the galaxy of servitude and free the ones like us." Pause. Sigh. "We only made a dent."

Anakin's eyes crinkle with warmth that partially reaches his lips. They curl, not quite convincingly, and Padme reads the promise in his half-grin. "Another day, Kit." He sneaks Obi-Wan a glare dripping with mischief. "With my fondness for crashing things, when have I ever stopped at a dent? Be safe, my friend."

With that, Anakin hands the comm to Solo and departs, mind switching automatically to Jedi mode, covert space routes, weaponry... Obi-Wan tosses Anakin's lightsaber back to its owner, then follows, as Padme departs for the twins' room. "So much for getting Leia back to sleep," she grumbles, snagging a few burlap sacks along the way.

They've left the ten-year-old Corellian alone in the kitchen, completely dumbfounded.

Some days, he wishes he was just a kid. No blasters, smugglers or Jedi in the mix.

Solo presses his blue eyes tight, exhaling as he grips the comm to his mouth.

This is one of those days.

_Finis. For now. _

_I hope Han's little line in the sand was worth waiting for. Of course, your insights are most welcome. _


	19. Chapter 19

_Readers, you're helping me chug right along with this. Again, my humble thank you for your time, your feedback and your minds wide open as I fly by the seat of my literary pants. In particular, __**Eldar-Melda, Mo Angel**__ (I need to spend more time gazing into Harrison Ford's eyes, obviously!), __**elijahlover, Mireilles3, maesde, QueenYoda, QueenNaberrie, PhantomFan13, Haley Renee, Guest, **__**angie, Rogue Hellsing**__ (you're the shiznet, friend!), __**Raiukage, TC**__ and __**Edwin Loftus **__were kind enough to leave comments. __Bien oblige!_

_Next up… My best intentions toward the plotline were thwarted by relationship gobsmackery. Han's ticked, Obi-Wan's well… Obi-Wan, and Ani/Padme dive into the minutiae, and then…_

Chapter 19

As Solo's hands flutter deftly over the _Falcon_'s control panel, a view of the endless expanse of space hovering before him, he thinks life should be like the windshield.

Planets, stars, moons in stately order, fixed in a background of glittering brilliance. A guy can count on entities in space, he thinks. It's not like Corellia's going to have picked up and moved the next time he sets a course for it. And Alderaan is probably where the gods left it, because they'll be boots-down on the planet in a few standard hours.

Stability. Permanence. He likes those things. As opposed to ambiguity. And turncoat loyalty. And flip-flopping Jedi-turned-Sith-turned-Jedi, maybe.

Said maybeJedi is in the back, _thankfully,_ settling the crawlers as they get acquainted with space travel. As usual, Luke had taken to the new experience with a yawn, then nuzzled into a makeshift crib Anakin crafted from supply boxes. Prettygirl crawler hadn't reacted so amiably to the wonder of g-forces – _surprise_, Solo grouses. Her parents are busy soothing her squabbles in the _Falcon_'s sparse living quarters.

Now if he can just avoid the Kenobi fella, whose ultra-annoying blank stare in the face of, well, _everything,_ is really flicking Solo's last string of a nerve.

"Not getting an itch to stretch those thrusters, are you?" The aforethought Jedi master gets comfy next to Solo in the co-pilot's chair, detecting the boy's mental grumble as he does. "We taxed them pretty well with our somewhat hasty takeoff."

But well ahead of the clueless Imps, Obi-Wan thinks, sending wordless gratitude into the Force. Ani's friend had commed a few minutes before to confirm his crew's safe departure, as well. The prospect of escaping the harsh confines of Tatooine elevates Obi-Wan's spirits, providing the zest he needs to tackle this headstrong boy from Corellia.

Whose loathing for the headstrong boy from Tatooine has abated very little.

Solo offers a lazy swipe of his fingertips against the bottom panel, far enough from the console that it isn't blatant defiance, but close enough that it can loosely be construed as such. Depending on how kriffin' picky Kenobi wants to be.

"Not yet." Clipped, with snippy undertones to spare. Unpleasant memories of Anakin's sullen pre-teen years freshen, then sour, in Obi-Wan's mind. "Maybe later."

Although Obi-Wan is well known for his tact in the most acrimonious situations, his talent for slicing through bantha poodoo is even more impressive. Therefore, it's no surprise when he states without preamble, "You didn't ask him why he turned to the Dark Side. You should."

"Maybe I don't care." Of_ course_ Solo cares, is practically boiling for the lurid details, in fact. Something to do with Ani's pretty wife, he guesses, because the maybeJedi with the hard-headed devotion wouldn't have Force-choked her if he didn't fiercely worship her to the ends of the galaxy _more._

Which is why Han Solo, emphasis on_ Solo_, will never let a woman wrangle him like that.

"Just in case I care later, maybe you should tell me." There's a prolonged, stubborn pause, as if Solo waits for Obi-Wan to anticipate his thoughts. Kriffin' Jedi patience.

Solo's hands gather on the console, eyes averted to the controls as if tediously studying each throttle, gauge and button. Obi-Wan sits, perfectly, maddeningly content, his eyes calmly surveying the passage of stars in the inky darkness before them.

"_Geez._ Okay. Why did he turn to the Dark Side?" As if any reason, no matter how grave or integral, could justify such a plummet in morality.

With that, the Great Negotiator rises from the co-pilot's perch, then gives the Corellian a piercing look that practically dares – wait, Jedi don't _dare_, do they? – the boy to act. Obi-Wan's voice is cool, soft.

"You should listen a little better, young one. I said you should ask _him_."

x x x

x

"Can we still say he sleeps like a baby if he _is_ a baby?"

Anakin can't suppress the mawkish grin that alights his entire face as he cradles his boy, anymore than Padme can't stop shaking her head. Luke had been supremely happy in the substitute crib, sprawled carelessly atop the blankets with his little pink mouth hanging open.

So appealingly cute that his father had scooped him up, and none too gingerly, because Luke sleeps through _everything._

Leia, however, is decidedly ornery, alternating between grumpy babbles and half-hearted, mewling cries in Padme's arms as his wife murmurs every consoling word in an array of dictions.

"She's really tugging at her ears, isn't she?" Padme rises, positioning Leia over her shoulder as she rubs the girl's back with slow, comforting strokes. "You'll get used to space, little love. It's in the Skywalker genes."

Anakin strolls to his girls, leaning so his face fills Leia's vision while he croons, "It feels a lot better when you're flying the thing, princess. You're so clever I'll bet teaching you takes no time at all." His daughter somehow tangles her fist in Anakin's dishwater hair, strands weaving through her knuckles as her father moves to unwind himself with a chuckle, then deposits wet kisses on her stubby fingers. Leia giggles, causing her father to beam before Padme insists they place the twins back in the crib.

"I'd actually stopped spoiling them, and then you came along," Padme teases, drawing Anakin reluctantly from the two who can easily captivate him. Their voices drop as Leia relinquishes her need for her parents' undivided attention, content to wriggle next to Luke until she drifts into fretful slumber.

"The story of your life," her husband jests, pulling Padme on his lap as he sinks into the cramped bed. "Somehow, everything goes haywire when I come along, doesn't it?"

Padme swivels gracefully, her arms falling around his neck. "Always has, love. Right from the start."

"Yes, Angel," the Jedi agrees, memories of a dusky workshop, a funny little boy and hands far too smooth for a handmaiden brightening the dank bedroom. "From the start." His sigh is heavy as he rediscovers the contours of her delicately-boned face. "It seems so long ago that we were starting our life on the balcony of Varykino. When things would get bad, I would go back to that moment after we were married. I'm sure the sunset was beautiful, but somehow, I could not take my eyes off my bride." There's still some bashfulness left in the woman who has gone from bride to wife; Padme blushes charmingly, to Anakin's delight.

His fingers roam from the line of her brow, tracing down to her collarbone as the stain of her cheeks grows more pronounced. "When I returned to the Temple, Obi-Wan wondered how I could be so chipper for a man going to war."

Padme acquiesces adoringly into his touch, eyes sparkling like the sun glittering above the palisade. "When you were gone, I'd rub my belly and tell the baby – " a blissful grin splits her mouth; how could she not have known there were two? " – a Skywalker fairy tale that always began in the lake country. He would learn to swim near the island, we would have gatherings with my family, and you and I would steal away after everyone fell asleep." Her voice recedes, much like the rays of the recalcitrant moon near daybreak in their sacred meadow. "Every story ended with, 'When the war ends, little one,' but here we are. Still at war."

He can offer little more than a sympathetic nod. Before, he would've buffered her sadness with pledges he'd have no certainty of keeping, so arrogant was the Hero With No Fear.

Padme cups his chin, bringing his eyes to hers. "I need you to know how sorry I am, Ani. I was pompous about the chancellor's failure to listen to the Senate even as I was guilty of not listening to my own husband." Anakin's eyes close at her admonition, remembrance of their volatile life, the fabrications twined and defended with such vigilance that their eventual unraveling could be nothing short of spectacular. "I should have listened when you told me of your dreams. I knew how prophetic they could be, and the best assurance I offered was merely my_ word_ that I wouldn't die. How poor a comfort that must have been, love."

Anakin raises his hand to curtail her confession, but Padme bats it down with the tenacious determination for which she'd become renowned. Her husband had borne the guilt of a village that had shirked its responsibilities; it was time she accounted for her own.

"When you begged me to go away with you after the Outer Rim sieges, I should have considered more than the duties that had nearly consumed my life. I could see how much it was all wearing at you – the battles, the infighting, lying to everyone, especially Obi-Wan."

Anakin winces. How many times had he attempted to disclose his pyramid of falsehoods? Shuffled his feet and his speech under Obi-Wan's trusting eyes, then skulked away like a wayward child because he simply could not bear to earn another glare of disapproval?

"We were at war," Anakin dismisses, tone brittle. "Neither of us was in a position to walk away."

"We are still at war," his wife clarifies softly, pushing him back into a reclining position, her body following his lead. "And for the past year, I have opened my eyes every morning, terrified_ this_ is the day Sidious will find our children." She shudders, burrowing further into his arms. _This_ is the reason he'd led Imperial troops from one wild pikobi chase to another, raided their supply vessels and attacked their regiments with audacious disregard.

"I've lived a fracture of the torment you must have felt from the day you returned to Coruscant to find me rounder than a bristlemelon, and yet I've only begun to understand how desperate you must have been."

Anakin has reflected upon those days on more occasions than he cares to admit, analyzing his vulnerabilities to the darkness that had become a spectre of innate subterfuge. After his vision – one in which Padme's terrified, wilting screams evoked a pronounced tremor in his hands – he'd slept very little, even with her lush, rounded frame inviting his company. Every moment, it seemed, grew more pressurized, the snarls of his deceptions coming closer to discovery as he sought something… more, higher, stronger… _anything _to prevent Padme's fated death.

He tries to return Padme's earnest gaze, but the tendrils of lingering shame urge detachment. Instead, he pulls from her arms, but the senator holds steadfast. Her unspoken message is clear: no more distancing.

"Don't rationalize me as some misguided war hero whose sins were perpetrated for a higher purpose." Anakin's words are directed at the ragged bedspread that's seen better standard decades. "As much as I would gladly hide behind you and the twins as my motivations, we both know my ambitions were as strong as my desperation." The pieces of the darkness, disjointed remnants within his mending soul, loosen. "Maybe stronger, back then."

And now? It would be logical to ask; the inquiry nearly slips from her.

Instead, Padme strokes away the stone of his frame, which has tightened incrementally as they've thrown the door of their blended transgressions fully open. "Stronger for what purpose? I saw you each time you returned to me – one more scar, one more piece of your soul lost to Geonosis, then to Hisra."

At Anakin's tremble, his wife lifts a warm hand to his chest, easily moving his tunic aside so her skin rests against his, her palm scarcely larger than the heart pulsing beneath it.

The pads of her fingers move upward, brushing lightly until they linger on the uneven slash that bisects his right eye, a blemish that must evince his rancor even as it sparks admiration in those enthralled by the Hero With No Fear.

"You sought power to end a war that had come with unthinkable cost to the Jedi, and to save those you loved." Her lips follow her fingertips, coaxing the hood of his lids so she can pepper him with every kiss denied them during the Clone Wars.

"It would be easier to hate you, Ani, but then, I've had the privilege of watching our children laugh with so much joy, and throw terrible tantrums, and grow into some suspiciously Jedi-like behavior since the day they were born." Her mouth glides from a dewy eye to his full lips, a torrent of profound emotion fevering her touch as he accepts her kiss as a blessed benediction.

"When Han brought you here, so… broken, the past fell away," she breathes into his hair. "Keeping you with me, allowing our children to know the father who had lost so much of himself to ensure they were born… little else mattered."

He'd told her once that her presence soothed, but it is an inferior proxy for the paradise of her touch, which bonds, and heals, and frees him with such purity that he often wonders if she possesses mystical powers herself.

As the bliss of her ministrations washes over him, he well understands the bargains he'd made with himself on those torrid battlefields of Geonosis, and Praesitlyn, and Felucia. Breech that perimeter teaming with Imps and you'll go home to Padme. Evade being milled into confetti by that landmine and her body will cleanse yours of the blood and bits carved from everything you destroy.

Resist the cold, inhuman voice that demands your submission – _with power, all will be yours_ – and her lips, her hands, her conviction will keep you from freefalling into the abyss.

Here, with his wife and children, he is neither the Chosen One nor the Hero With No Fear – a ludicrous moniker, really, because he's found that the nucleus of bravery is fear. He holds _life_ in his battle-scarred hands, nurtures it, and in its graces, all he must do is revere it.

Such reverence, however, comes with an ageless companion that has haunted him since he'd left Tatooine. "My past might have fallen away for a time, but it will never stay buried, love."

He captures her face, that beloved identity that cultivates, cajoles, wills him to survive, his eyes glassy with remorse that even her touch cannot quiet. "I have _murdered _people, Padme. So many that I cannot remember the first one, anymore, and you blasted well think I would remember that."

There's a gravelly croak in his voice that comes only when emotion overrides his legendary control. "With each battle, I felt like I lost that piece of me that bled as much as my victims." He cradles her stomach, aches for another bump that will roll sweetly in his hands. "Then, you were pregnant and in the instant you told me, I thought I could shed the filth of my own brutality, be somehow reborn in my child's eyes, and in yours."

Then, the visions. The vacant terror seizing his heart. How could he possibly live without her? The scrap of his soul that had become coldly immune to death revived with single-minded purpose.

"I reached for the only solution I could find, as degenerate as it was," Anakin murmurs. "I could not let the power _he_ told me would save you slip away." _Sidious._ If anything holds dominion to the waning reservoirs of Anakin's hatred, it is the Sith who seamlessly wormed his way into Anakin's mind, distorted his vulnerability and corrupted his weakness. That Sidious' vile influence clings through a bond as vital as the one he shares with Obi-Wan rankles Anakin to his core.

"When I felt the light of our children, I understood how wrong it was to trust that any sliver of darkness could possibly safeguard the light." Anakin touches his twins through the Force, a thankful caress much more for his benefit than theirs, and is rewarded as he watches them exhale nearly with one breath.

"Do you trust me now, Padme?" Despite the rekindling of a love he thought he'd massacred as sure as the ruthless thrust of a lightsaber, he knows what her answer _should _be. "If I had to protect you or our children, do you trust that I would choose differently than I did before Mustafar?"

The syllables of a planet forever etched in Padme's mind send a foreboding tingle down her spine, but she recovers with resolute poise. She will not allow this loophole of progress they've made narrow into a noose.

She takes care to use the flavor of wife, rather than senator, for her husband can separate one from the other with ease.

"I trust that the decision you made when you left me with Obi-Wan was a pivotal point for you, Ani." There's a chill within her as images of her husband – no, he was Vader in those moments – invade her thoughts. The wanton depravity of his stare, the flashpoint of cold, virulent fury. The malicious snap of his voice climbing…

_Liar!_ _You brought him here to kill me! _

No, she assures herself firmly, watching a wee, stocking-clad foot tap sleepily in the crib. Vader is gone.

Ani is here.

She believes it when she states, hands stroking his face, "The Anakin Skywalker who lies with me now will do what he must to remain the father and husband he has proven himself to be since he came back to us." She smiles as a peculiarity strikes her, projects an awed expression while recalling something obviously sentimental. "Isn't it strange, Ani, that you had to come back to Tatooine to rediscover who you really are?"

"A funny little boy?" he retorts, sharing the memory. "I'd say it's appropriate. I left with nothing but a rucksack and a boundless dream." His brows crease. "That turned into a nightmare of my own making."

Her hands snatch under the covers, prodding his rugged frame until he laughs and the shadows fade. "You leave with a dream that comes after the nightmare, and two little dreamers of your own, to boot."

Little dreamers… An abrupt realization settles on both parents as they consider their beloved children. Innocent, dependent and entirely _hidden, _until now.

Padme nibbles her lower lip, a nervous gesture Anakin hasn't seen since… well, he can't remember when. They've reverted back to the onerous lie that formed the foundation of their covert life.

"We can still keep it a secret, love." He reads her uncertainly, taps into her long-held fears: sullying a lifetime of service, failing her people. "It was as much for you as it was for me."

"So we'll trundle down the gangplank with a twin under each arm and hope the alliance mistakes our children for the latest designer _pets _from Naboo?" Incredulous, his wife stares as if Anakin has suddenly misplaced his mind. "Really, Ani, Leia's coloring is easily explained, but Luke's dashing good looks will give you away in a Corellian second."

Anakin's chest expands with alpha pride, then promptly deflates into a more appropriate growl of frustration. "Oh, right. That's a _problem_."

Her fingers tangle in his under the well-worn blanket, and he sees something else glean in the golden eyes that so entrance him: honor of a husband.

"Not anymore. I've died a little each day we've had keep our marriage invisible, rather than treating it with the celebration we deserve." Tears spill down her cheeks, and he immediately absorbs them with his thumbs. Can they not have one conversation when he doesn't make her cry, blast it?

"You are my _husband_, Ani. I'd shout it from the pillars of the senate, if it wouldn't so obviously compromise our safety." Her hand emerges from their cocoon, flicks toward their slumbering children with a fresh current of tears. "The galaxy will know that Luke and Leia _Skywalker_ were born from love. I will not allow secrecy to rule their lives as it has ruled their parents,' not even for one day."

It is the most prodigious gift she could give him.

They lose themselves for a heady span, reacquainting the meld of their bodies to strings of kisses and sultry murmurings between intimates. Laughing with uncommon normalcy when one of the twins fidgets, threatening the spellbound moments.

Finally, her husband stretches the length of his long, quite virile frame, one palm under his head while the other holds his wife willingly hostage. "We'll be in Alderaan in a few hours. Ready for this, Skywalker?"

Padme's reply comes with coquettish sass, eyes roaming from his shoulder to a lower plane as she arches with an intent that tightens him in all the right places. "I'm ready for _lots_ of things, Skywalker."

His eyes widen with wolfish appreciation. He cannot resist nipping that pouty lip, then thoroughly capturing the rest of her mouth while pledging huskily, "When we have more at our disposal than a lumpy bed in full view of our children, I _promise_ I will hold you to that."

His wife snickers enticingly. She really needs to stop, or… "Ha! We both know you forget everything. That's why I used to put all those flimsis in you pockets."

The Chosen One, also known as the Hero With No Fear, sometimes called the Son of Suns, but most responsive to his wife's throaty lure of just "Ani," returns her teasing with a playful swat to her lovely, far-too-clothed derriere.

"Love, I'm just a man. Believe me when I say I _won't _forget."

_Finis. _

_Deep and bubbly, yes? It seemed like it kept writing itself and I had to cut it off at the knees, but please share your thoughts. Chapters 20/21 have been going swimmingly, too! _

_A couple people have asked questions and they don't allow a reply, so I'll answer here:_

_TC: My apologies, but it __**is**__ too early for Han/Leia. She's 1! But I throw little hints of hints, here and there…_

_Special note to Eldar-Melda: Han will be more likeable, I promise. He's 10, after all, and pre-teens are known for their snipe-y 'tudes. Hang with him. _

_Many readers: I'm horrible at headlines and titles. Hence, "Pulse" was thrown onto the original one-shot (Chapter 1) as the title because I had nothing else. Now, I think the story's grown into it. Sometimes, I challenge myself to work the word into every chapter, but I haven't kept track of whether I actually have. _


	20. Chapter 20

_Many thanks to those who read, comment and keep my story on their radars. You justify all my nutty hours researching (thanks, Wookieepedia), writing, re-writing and editing… Queen Yoda, Mo Angel, Raiukage, Eldar-Melda, QueenNaberrie, maesde, Mireille (no end in sight, for now) and Guest – thanks again. _

_Here we go: Obi/Ani mega-bonding. Jedi getting their dander up. And… a plotline!_

Chapter 20

Leave it to Obi-Wan to find the most obscure of "necessities" with bare notice.

The Jedi master sits in the co-pilot's chair, hand buried in a cloth that glides methodical circles into his well-scuffed boots. The habit is long-practiced, yielding a sense of ritualistic peace as Anakin observes – with absolutely no intention of polishing his own.

"Apparently, smugglers have a sense of propriety about their boots," the master informs, firmly applying another dose of polish as he eyes assorted nicks on Anakin's footwear. "Certainly wouldn't hurt yours at all."

Anakin offers a careless shrug as his gaze falls to the Corellian boy slumped awkwardly in the pilot's chair. His face is squashed at a distorted angle, rolling snores showcasing his exhaustion. Anakin's piecemealed shirt bunches about his neck with a snugness bordering on uncomfortable.

"How's he doing?"

Obi-Wan decodes the question: Should I expect to find the blunt end of a blaster near my temple anytime soon?

"Oh, he's angry. Snide." The master swipes at his boots with a bit more gusto than before, as if on a mission to remove every particle of Tatooine from the soles. "More of a smart-arse than you were, surprisingly enough."

The scar around Anakin's eye moves with the arch of his brow. "Really? That might be the first time you've given me a compliment about my teenage years, Master." But his mischief-tinged smile dulls the sarcasm.

"Not surprisingly, he's interested in why you fell. I told him to ask you." Scuff, scuff. Dab of polish. Scuff some more.

Anakin wryly pulls up a chair. "_That_ should be quite a conversation. Understanding it as an adult is difficult enough."

He plucks the cloth from Obi-Wan with flourish and gets to work on his own boots, since his master's have been buffed to spotless perfection – as always.

"What? I'm to look like a Hutt when we meet the alliance? First impressions, you always told me."

Obi-Wan snorts in the same manner he saves for the penultimate move of a zealous dejarik match. "I certainly did, but you showed no signs of listening."

"Hey, I listened!" Nonplussed, Anakin's fingers freeze, mid-swipe. Pause. "Sometimes." Obi-Wan's own eyebrow quirks. "Well, when it suited me."

What _is_ that glimmer in the older man's sage eyes? Anakin knows the wait for whatever nugget of knowledge Obi-Wan is about to bestow will be worth it, but that doesn't lessen the itch to give his master a good smack for dragging it out.

"Han will listen." A knowing smile crawls beneath Obi-Wan's beard as he pats a wayward cord from Anakin's tunic into place. _Patience, padawan_. "When it suits _him_."

Anakin leans back into the chair, considering. Yes, his master is probably right. And fatherhood is grudgingly stretching his patience to degrees he'd once thought unattainably high.

When Anakin glances back, Obi-Wan is chuckling with a closed smile. "You do that a lot more now," the master observes.

"What?"

"Smile. Look _happy_, rather than _ready_." The grin morphs into a slight frown. "It suits you, Anakin."

Could take some getting used to, Anakin thinks, this open current of affection that flows unexpectedly from Obi-Wan's Force signature and easily into his own. The connective tissue of a padawan-master bond, powerful as it is, differs greatly from the nuances of a link brokered from decades-long fellowship, especially now that it flourishes freely.

Anakin's throat is a bit constricted when he responds. "Might not look bad on you, either. Perhaps a certain handmaiden with a weakness for bearded Jedi could – "

Before he can finish, setting the stage for Obi-Wan to protest, a dissonant snore blares from Solo as the boy twists in the chair. Sable hair falling over his adolescent cheekbones, his eyes flicker and he thrashes for a moment, then falls back to noisy slumber.

Both Jedi are gazing pensively at the young Corellian when Obi-Wan borrows the cloth for a last shine. _  
_

"When Han stepped between you and the twins' room, I felt that… presence, heard that... drone." When he straightens, Obi-Wan's back is too rigid, an indication that the spectral depiction of the Dark Side had thoroughly unsettled him. "It was _so_ calculating. Cold." His vision wanders toward the windshield, seeming to contemplate adequate phrasing with the passage of the stars. "Formidable."

Anakin's gaze follows his master's, even though the celestial bodies hold no answer. "He always was formidable. I didn't see the cold and calculating parts until… well."

"Sidious." Obi-Wan breathes the word as if it's the most tawdry in his rather sizable lexicon. Probably is. "Greedy Sith. I'll give him that. Relentless, too." Obi-Wan holds himself in check, unsure if he's as hungry as he thinks for the details. "How often do you hear_ encouragement _like that?"

"Too often to keep track." Anakin flicks at a flyaway thread on his trousers, head turning toward Obi-Wan in sudden awareness. "How did _you_ hear it? That hasn't happened before."

Obi-Wan's fingertips comb through his whiskers. "I thought I felt something in that moment at your mother's grave when we both refused to attack. A cleansing, of sorts, within our Force-bond." Fragments of stale burdens and mistrusts had withered, crumpled, then flushed harmlessly away within the depths of the Force.

"It's not necessarily a genesis of our bond, because it was never broken. We're just more attuned, centered. As it should be."

Anakin recalls his earlier desire for rebirth, which he'd considered just another throwaway wish to the stars, at the time.

Perhaps he's been granted something just as significant. The purification of his link to Obi-Wan symbolizes that fraying bonds of brotherhood and friendship can be patiently re-strung, if both parties are willing to thread the needle.

"Thank you, Obi-Wan."

"You're welcome." But the Jedi master's reply isn't automatic. He's _listening _acutely now to nuances and crevices of their discussions. This earnestness in reforging their communication could become tiresome if it lingers too long; for now, Anakin finds it oddly touching. "For what?"

Anakin reclaims the cloth, now so stained by worn polish that it's hardly useful.

"For knowing that voice in the dark wasn't me."

x x x

x

_A remote hangar_  
_Alderaan_

Ever the pilot, Anakin thumps the Falcon's throttle on his way out of the cockpit, mouth tweaked in a small smile. She's certainly not the _Azure Angel_, but the intrepid freighter has now twice pulled his arse from the fire.

Once the Jedi disappears from sight, Solo follows, giving the throttle his own grateful smack. "If Shrike could see us now," the boy mutters, a crooked – and quite similar – grin on his face.

Obi-Wan straightens the wrinkles from his spacious robe, shaking out the last bits of sand. Force, it's been forever since he's seen the splendor of real vegetation, or the ripple of a waterway, or anything not dusted in musky grit.

"Off that planetary sandcastle at last!" Threepio exclaims, toddling down the gangplank with fussy enthusiasm. His metallic arm clanks onto a silvery-blue dome at his golden waist. "Oh, look! I'm visualizing water, and green landforms, and, according to my databank, enormous, petrified hives on this planet. Do hurry, Artoo!"

The married Skywalkers exit the freighter moving as one, joined at the hands as each free arm cradles a twin. With Luke's fair coloring and Leia's dark-eyed beauty, there will be no mistaking their heritage. Having the toddlers presented by the parents they resemble will merely drive the point home.

"Letting the nexu out of the bag, I see," Obi-Wan mumbles into Anakin's ear, somewhat amused as he treads behind them. Clutching a knapsack with his meager belongings, Solo lags a few steps south. He can't remember if he's ever been to Alderaan; entirely possible, since his early trips with Shrike were spent toiling in the galley of the _Falcon _with barely a breath of fresh air.

"We're not in the dustbowl anymore, are we?" Solo mutters, surveying the hangar warily.

Luke squeals in Anakin's arms as a cool, misty breeze brushes his cheeks. They'd been guided to a secluded airfield on the cusp of the breathtaking mountain range near Juranno. In the midst of royal vessels scattered about, rich splashes of emerald grassland and sapphire-waved lakes peek through windows atop hangar walls.

Anakin squeezes Padme's hand before she can tell him how much she misses a like planet dear to them both. It would be callous to feign the kindness of saying "When the war is over." He murmurs simply, "Soon, love."

They descend the gangplank without a moment's pause, Anakin discreetly scouring the hangar for the flavor of their welcoming committee. He's barely swept the right flank when Obi-Wan's whisper calms through the Force: _Relax. Why do you always expect trouble?_

_Because people aren't nearly as magnanimous as you think,_ comes the reply. _Sometimes, I'm actually right._

Obi-Wan's expression remains placid, but Anakin hears his Force-chuckle. _If you say so._

Bail Organa's dark hair is now dappled with gray. He approaches in the ornately-colored robes of his home planet, flanked by what appear to be a few regiments from the Alderaanian military. Others – those employed by the airfield and selected dignitaries in garbs of magenta and olive, scatter nearby.

Completely ordinary, Obi-Wan thinks. And yet, something tugs through the Force, a rustle urging anticipation. _Be ready._

Organa wears an expression of official welcome, hands clasped behind his back as he passes the droids to greet the Skywalkers. If their obvious closeness surprises him, he conceals it expertly as he addresses his colleague, senator to senator.

"I am pleased to offer you refuge in Alderaan, Senator Amidala. And much more pleased to see that you have avoided Imperial entanglements safely, milady."

Padme doesn't flinch an eyelash, merely smiles in gracious acceptance, every inch the dignified public official despite the conspicuous toddler nestled against her shoulder.

"I am truly grateful for your hospitality, Bail. And, if you please, I prefer to be addressed by my rightful name, Padme Amidala Naberrie Skywalker. You know my husband, Anakin, of course."

The newly-announced husband, redolent in a crisp, if muddy-brown Jedi robe with no trace of grit, nods while gamely stifling the grin of a rogue. There's a rush of euphoria at finally hearing his wife's full, wedded name roll from her lips, even more of a thrill as those who absorb it gape like children on Winter Fete morning.

She is brilliant, his wife. And enchantingly clever. And more breathtaking than the majesty of a Nabooian waterfall to a boy born from sand.

She's _his._ He can crow it to the moons of Iego now, and even after his exultation rebounds to this planet, it will still be so.

The jubilation lasts a fleeting moment before Organa flashes an expression of dutiful apology to both Skywalkers. "Yes," he answers with reluctance.

The instinct of readiness heightens as Obi-Wan watches Anakin's inertia shift from his heels to the balls of his feet. The Jedi master feels the pulse of his own adrenaline increase from a trickle to a palpable stream.

_Something's happening._ They utter it simultaneously within the Force.

When Organa speaks again, it is with formal statesmanship as he beckons a legion of olive-clad troops who'd been absent just a few moments prior toward the beleaguered travelers.

"Anakin Skywalker, it is my duty to inform you that the Alliance to Restore the Republic places you under arrest for high crimes against the former Galactic Republic and the Holy Order of the Jedi Knights."

Organa's eyes fall to the bundle in Padme's arms, recalling the little one named Leia's unearthly beauty on Polis Massa. His tone softens. "Please, Knight Skywalker," he beseeches to the tight circle, "release your weapon and do not resist. There is no battle to be won here."

Despite his building trepidation, Anakin agrees. He's half expected this would unfold at some point, had hoped to preempt a scene with a bit of adept negotiation from his master. No matter now.

The Jedi merely pulls his son further into his embrace, a hand cradling Luke's head in his billowy robes, soberly cognizant that the privilege may be short-lived.

His wife, however… Padme Amidala Naberrie _Skywalker's_ stature snaps in an instant, her royal bearing evident in the upward flare of her shoulders even as she shelters Leia closer and turns her erect body into her husband's. With the ironic shift in perilous terrain, it is wife who shields husband now.

"Very well," Padme declares in the much the same brook-no-argument tone she used when announcing her marriage. "Under those conditions, Senator Organa, please instruct your troops to arrest me, as well."

x x x

x

It takes Obi-Wan a minute to get his bearings amid a flurry of startled inhales and outright gasps.

Flummoxed, he stares blankly at Organa, unsure which of them is more discomfited, until Anakin has to scoff "Obi-Wan!" so he can pass Luke gently to his master.

Obi-Wan's simply never seen this before. Anakin, surrendering with passive compliance. Even in the most dire of situations – Muunilinst comes quickly to mind – there would be a burst of bravura that his padawan would, somehow, manage to pull off with either panache or sheer, stupid luck – but he'd never just… _succumbed._ Handed his son to another with an expression so grim it nearly knocks Obi-Wan clean over, but then, how will he attend to Luke from the tarmac floor?

Leia, too. Despite Anakin's fervent hisses to the contrary, the senator of Naboo is freely surrendering, as well. Organa himself seems to have lost the capacity to roust another command, so baffled is he by Padme's intentions as she kisses Leia's forehead in hasty farewell. The Force-sensitive girl, jolted by both her father's and Obi-Wan's climbing agitation, begins to cry.

"Here, I got her." Solo jumps forward just as the Jedi master shuffles Luke from one arm to the other. Padme gratefully transfers her daughter with a soft acknowledgement to the boy from Corellia, notices how gently he cradles Leia, even if his "ssh, ssh, it's okay" murmurings are clumsily ineffective.

"Padme – " Organa attempts, a venture to regain control of what is rapidly disintegrating into an embarrassing kerfuffle. Those who have gathered buzz, mystified, at the senator of Naboo as she stands near her husband – _husband, the Hero With No Fear!_ – while preparing to part from her twin children – _sired by the Hero With No Fear! – _and… waits. Her tiny figure is dwarfed by Anakin's stout, intimidating frame, but it is her hands that draw fascination from the crowd.

They rest in front of her, upturned so the lighter palms cup toward the sun, her fingers slightly curling. The stance is unmistakable; it appears her hands have already capitulated to unseen binders.

This… Anakin will not have _this_.

"You will _not _march her away in restraints." Obi-Wan stiffens as the tone of Anakin's warning – it _is_ assuredly a warning – washes over them; awakened warrior, poised to erupt. "She will not be dishonored that way." Half mind-trick, partial command, it comes with the authority of a general accustomed to giving orders.

His durasteel hand remains at his side, motionless. Away from his lightsaber, thank the Force. "I'm going to hand over my weapon and settle my children. Then, you _will _allow Padme to walk of her own volition, without binders. We will not resist."

As Anakin goes through the motions of what he'd just promised, Obi-Wan's temple develops an abrupt throb._ I don't know what in the kriffin' hells she thinks she's doing, Master, so snap out of your stupor and figure it out! _

"I am not arresting _you_." Organa addresses his colleague, trying mightily to ignore the seething Jedi – make that seething Jedi _husband_, of all things. Face a mask of contained anger, Anakin proffers the hilt of a gouged, scuffed lightsaber in his gloved palm.

Few things shame a Jedi more than relinquishing his storied weapon.

"By your own standards, I believe you _must_," Padme argues coolly, earning a cantankerous glower from her husband and a gape of bafflement from Obi-Wan. "By the nature of my association with the former chancellor, now known as Emperor Darth Sidious, I have committed crimes against the Republic."

Various negotiation tactics rampage through Obi-Wan's mind. From squabbles in varied local chambers, to rages in the battlefields, he's seen them all. This little gambit of Padme's, he realizes, is more suited to a rowdy sabacc table than a fledgling rebellion base.

"I'd certainly like to have a look at the language defining 'high crimes against the Republic,'" Obi-Wan intervenes, keeping his tone neutral. "In regard to crimes against the Jedi Order, it is known throughout the galaxy that the Order operates as an _informal,_ rather than an _official_, intermediary. Therefore, the Republic has no jurisdiction." He fixes a stern glare on Organa. "Conflict within the Order will be handled by the High Council, as it has always been."

Organa finally finds his tongue, and it turns acerbic. "I'd be quite interested in the proceedings, Master Kenobi, considering there are so _few_ members of the Council left alive. Just yourself and Master Yoda, by my count." He risks a poisonous look at Anakin, lowering his voice so it is discernible to only those closest him. "You were quite thorough, Lord Vader."

"That name," Anakin grits, teeth exposed and shining as he enunciates very clearly, "means nothing to me."

"It means something to the Republic," Organa fires back. "It is the name of the Emperor's right hand. If Darth Sidious cannot immediately be tried for his litany of crimes against the Republic, justice will be sought elsewhere. Perhaps the place to begin is with the premeditated execution of the Separatist Council on Mustafar."

The foolish opening given, Obi-Wan seizes it, quickly transferring Luke from his arms to Solo's – thank the Force for Luke's genial nature – then striding crisply forward until he's aligned with the Skywalkers.

"Wha…? Wait!" Solo yelps, juggling the crawlers. "That's _two, _you know!"

"Then I will surrender, as well," Obi-Wan offers silkily, mirroring Padme's gesture with a show of subservient hands at his own abdomen. "I was solely responsible for the death of General Grievous and equally complicit in the death of Count Dooku. Both were confirmed Separatists, were they not?" His head flicks toward the lightsaber attached to his waist. "I will relinquish my weapon under the conditions General Skywalker has requested."

_This is how you figure things out?_ Anakin roils through the Force.

Solo's mouth droops until Obi-Wan is certain it may get caught in the latch of his belt. "Um… this is all a mistake," the Corellian pleads, addressing Organa, the Jedi, the pretty senator/queen, the blasted droids, whomever will make sense of the farce before him. _This_ is why they'd hightailed it from the dustbowl? _This_ is refuge?!

Time to demonstrate his proficiency in spinning the bantha poodoo, apparently.

"I'm Han Solo. Glad ta meet ya an' all. I'm a smuggler and a pretty good pilot. I play with blasters and I'm not much of a babysitter. Oh… and I'm ten." He sighs rather dramatically, would follow with a theatrical gesture or two, but his hands are full with gawky Skycrawlers. "And I'm really, _really_ irresponsible most of the time!"

The venue nearly explodes then, with hair-triggered politicians, short-tempered Jedi and pre-pubescent smugglers vigorously defending their positions until a single shout of exasperation permeates the din.

"Enough!" Mon Mothma, undisputed leader of the alliance, stands before them. Distinctly unhappy, although Obi-Wan cannot for the life of him figure out who has earned her wrath.

"Bail, instruct your troops to relieve our Jedi guests of their weapons until we can bring some order to this chaos. I am relieved to see you well, Padme, and… congratulations. We'll prepare accommodations for the children promptly. You look no worse for wear, Obi-Wan, which is saying something, considering the company you keep."

Mothma turns her unreadable attention to the Jedi who also has the unlikely title of husband.

"Anakin Skywalker." Is that a smile or a smirk? "Still causing a commotion every time you land a ship, I see."

Fortunately, Obi-Wan is the only one who hears Anakin's smart-arse Force reply.

"Let's get you all inside, then. We've a lot to discuss." Mothma pauses. When her politician's diplomacy dissolves in an instant, all are reminded that dark times have altered every dynamic of relationships once held sacred.

"Be advised: If for one moment I suspect the name Vader fits you better than Skywalker, I will do what I must."

With that, Mothma turns on her heel and marches from the hangar, skirts of her gown swaying in the breeze.

_Ideas? Feedback? Life advice for hard luck Han? By all means, light up the comments box!_


	21. Chapter 21

_We hit a milestone with this story, y'all! That nice, round number of 100 peeked into my "followers" section, so thank you to everyone who is kind enough to follow, favorite and, of course, you Jedi faithful who read and review (which really makes me smile):_ _**Mo Angel, Mireilles3, QueenNaberrie, QueenYoda, Haley Renee, Awkward Pen, Raiukage, , Eldar-Melda, Guest, SphinxScribe, AnakinlovesPadme **_and_**YouCantSeeMe**__ (clever name). _

_You can't stop now that you've shown yourselves, so please continue to drop me a line of comment, suggestion and/or a virtual high-five after you read. _

_Here were go again. Like Daddy, like children. And some Very. Serious. Stuff. _

Chapter 21

_Pulling at the binders will not make them spontaneously disappear, Anakin. _

Obi-Wan scolds through the Force even as his own wrists roll uncomfortably within a cage of similar restraints. They'd been snapped into place with the profuse, yet firm apology of Mothma herself.

"Forgive my abundance of caution until we all become better reacquainted," she'd added with a slight, enigmatic quirk of her mouth.

The kinetic ferocity of Anakin's glower when a soldier had approached his wife with binders, however, had convinced Mothma to wisely restrict the cuffs only to the Force-adepts. Padme's hands are full, anyway; although she'd been allowed to reclaim her daughter, Leia's cranky tears had continued until her cherub's face sought her father's.

The soothing hum of the twins' special lullaby had wafted gently through the Force, calming Leia's wails into tiny hiccups.

The paradox is in the way Anakin moves, trudging methodically with a hint of swagger, telling Obi-Wan everything he needs to know about his former student's edgy mood. He can only hope for that dour expression the next time they pick up a sabacc deck, as it will make Anakin easy pickings, for once.

Obi-Wan has a sudden pang for those carefree evenings in the Temple, of Anakin's gangly legs folded under him in the flickering candlelight. He'd focused on cards the way he did everything else – blue eyes glittering adroitly under a thatch of blonde curls, muttering a Huttese curse here and there.

As if in riposte to Obi-Wan's thoughts, Anakin's annoyance rumbles: _They'll welcome our presence, you said._

Obi-Wan's rejoin is quick. _I'd been led to believe they would._

_By whom? No one in this 'welcoming committee' seems likely to invite us to the next alliance potluck, Master! _Ordinarily not one prone to nervous fidgets, Obi-Wan can already see abrasions forming on Anakin's wrists.

_Stop pulling at your binders and keep calm. It may take some delicate negotiation, but I'm sure we can work something out. _

Anakin's vision falls to his children, on Luke trying gamely to jam a button from Han's shirt into his mouth and that telltale scrunch of Leia's cheeks that signals the imminence of a good, long cry. The brightness of the hanger, the cornucopia of bright colors after the washed-out terrain of Tatooine… it seems too overwhelming for his little one.

With a flick of his cuffed wrist, Anakin sends a grubby stuffed bantha hanging out of Obi-Wan's pack toward Leia, his index finger directing its teasing twirl around his daughter's tiny nose before the fuzzy hair of the toy tickles Leia's cheek.

The sound of his child's giggle surrounds him, saturates the Force with its innocence.

What a gift you have, Leia, Obi-Wan thinks, not for the first time. You may help save a galaxy not with prolific oration or weaponry masterfully wielded, but with the transcendent power of a smile from daughter to father.

It takes a moment of meditation before either Jedi can refocus on the seriousness of their situation.

_Just wait until I can summon my lightsaber before you decide aggressive negotiations are your plan B, _Anakin finally projects to Obi-Wan, feeling himself wince as his thoughts turn darkly protective. He comprehends that the word "lightsaber" is in far too-close a proximity to the words "Luke" and "Leia" for his comfort. The pit of his stomach forms a knot that corkscrews painfully at the prospect of his children – so small and guileless – caught in the maelstrom of battle.

_That will not happen._ Anakin swears it with such vehemence that Obi-Wan feels a distinct ripple of fused apprehension and fear within the Force, a portent shiver of dread shimmying down the master's spine. _I will keep them safe._

_We__ will keep them safe,_ Obi-Wan corrects, leaving Anakin no argument. _Since your wife will have both of our hides if we aggressively negotiate anywhere near the twins, I suggest we strive to make nice with the rebels._

Was that a bit of a chuckle from his prickly former student?_ I leave that to your peerless talents for negotiation, Master. _

Obi-Wan doesn't bother to reprimand Anakin about the binders again. He notices, however, that any distance Solo had kept from the group has been considerably closed. Mindful that a precise charge of tension has infiltrated the air, the boy walks near their heels, playing amiably with Luke even as his eyes survey their path toward… well, wherever they're being led.

Anakin's unease seems to heighten by degrees, as well. He paces slightly in front of Padme, between his two girls and whatever could present harm, as Obi-Wan does the same with Solo and Luke. The stirrings of something familiar prod within the Force, an unsettling chirrup that whispers of rivalry and disorderly clashes within Temple walls…

They've just crossed into a backdoor room when the greeting comes, cool and purposefully neutral, but Anakin's heads snaps toward it as if being taunted by a ghost:

"Hello, Master Kenobi."

Ferus Olin, former Jedi padawan and undisputed adversary of the Chosen One, rises from a chair, bestowing a traditional bow on the Jedi master. "I'm quite relieved to see that you're well." His eyes drift toward Anakin, tone becoming clipped, if not _too_ polite. There is no bow when he addresses his former Jedi brethren. "_Knight _Skywalker."

_Don't. Say. A word. _For once, Obi-Wan's direction goes without dissent as he returns the bow, with Anakin following suit, masking his agitation.

Introductions are brisk: Garm Bel Iblis, maverick senator from Corellia, to whom Solo's eyes widen at the mention of his home planet; Olin, "former Jedi knight representing the Order in the wake of the great purge;" Organa, senator of Alderaan and furtive champion of the rebellion; and Mothma. All wear grave expressions, with Bel Iblis' cracking slightly in surprise when Padme shifts her daughter from her right arm to properly shake his hand.

Mothma gestures for all to sit around a functionally plain conference table, adding, "A room has been readied with beds and the few toys we could procure for the children. My staff could take them – "

Padme is already shaking her head, and Anakin's restraints clink blatantly after he plops his bound wrists on the tabletop, stating, "You'll understand if we insist that our children stay with us."

That subtly-defiant tone, the half-clenched jaw… oh, this is going famously already, Obi-Wan grouses.

Solo files in between Anakin and Obi-Wan, with Luke settling on his lap. The toddler is immediately fascinated by the shiny durasteel surrounding his father's wrists, babbling "Da!" as his fingers slip between flesh, glove and metal.

"My apologies that we have only a small representation of alliance leadership here to welcome you," Mothma begins. "Your arrival was unexpected."

The Great Negotiator assumes the familiar mantle of unofficial spokesperson. "We are grateful for the safe haven, given our expedited departure," Obi-Wan responds, preferring that his bound hands rest unseen on his lap. "But we are understandably concerned by the … friction… we have encountered." His eyes level on Organa. "My communications with your inner circle indicated that all in this room would be considered friends of the alliance."

Something akin to a frown from Olin ripples through the Force, detected only by the other two Jedi. Tendrils of insecurity clench Anakin's hands. His squabbles with Olin were well-known throughout the Order, mediated by Obi-Wan and Master Siri Tachi when disagreements simmered into fisticuffs.

Anakin had often wondered how Olin would have fared as Obi-Wan's padawan, especially when the comportment of both seemed hopelessly foreign to him. The two had been strikingly similar in temperament and discipline, holding the Order and its tenants above all else.

Whereas Anakin was the Chosen One, Olin had been deemed the perfect Jedi.

And it had rankled Anakin down to his bootsnaps to be considered inferior to _anyone._

"Certain developments have forced us to reconsider our stance on several matters," Bel Iblis begins in that measured tone Padme well remembers from senatorial discussions. While she cannot guess what this Jedi, Olin, will bring to the table, her optimism is in good supply with what she knows of Mothma and Bel Iblis. The diplomatic question mark in her mind has fallen on Bail Organa, whose mouth visibly tightens when Anakin comes into his view, yet softens perceptibly when his eyes rest on Leia.

"We have always known your ideals to be congruent with those of the Republic, General Kenobi. Senator Amidala, your opposition to the principals of the Empire is thoroughly documented, as well. As one of the co-authors and original signers of the Petition of 2000, your patriotism is without reproach."

Padme sees where this particular line of compliments is going, and it disturbs her. "My over-enthusiastic 'patriotism' is one of the reasons the former chancellor was able to build enough power to overthrow the Republic, Senator. I am not without responsibility for what has befallen the Republic, nor, dare I say, are any who sit at this table."

An introductory shot, audaciously fired. Obi-Wan waits, breathless, to witness which dignitary feels compelled to respond first.

"Some levels of responsibility are greater than others." Organa, resplendent in his vivid robes and polished presentation, directs dripping hostility toward Anakin. "I have no desire to engage in useless arguments regarding senatorial _intent,_ Padme. We were all there with you. Legislation intended to bolster the chancellor during a time of war was manipulated; good intentions were twisted. Do not sacrifice your honor in an attempt to salvage your husband's. From where I sit, _Lord Vader_ has none!"

Ah, _there_ it is. In all of its blunt, accusatory ugliness, laid bare on the table for all to squirm over its ramifications.

Silence reigns in the physical realm, as well as within the Force. Although Padme's and Obi-Wan's instinctual reactions are to defend, they clamp their mouths shut. Solo feels as if he's rooted to the chair, shifting from side to side in time with an antsy Luke.

The floor, expectantly truculent as it is, belongs to Anakin.

"I would agree with you, Senator," the disgraced knight begins softly, so softly, his azure eyes on only his son as he coaxes Luke's stubby fingers from the binders once more. The boy's indignant squeal serves as a stark, potent reminder to his father. If not for Luke, he thinks, I would be spitting with fury, the very image of the brash, arrogant padawan Olin remembers. If not for Luke, I would be rife with justification, rather than remorse.

If not for Leia, I would not be here to answer for my crimes. I would be further lost, blindly marauding, rampaging, killing, assimilating into the dark madness that could have consumed me.

But his children are here, at his side. Luke is fumbling with the blasted binders because they separate father from son; Leia's feisty, stubborn streak already screams Skywalker. And Anakin will humbly submit to whatever he must, placate whomever necessary, because they are _here_.

"But I had honor, once," Anakin continues, lifting his eyes to address those who will assess his sincerity. "It was lost with one of the lives I took; I can't pinpoint which one. In some ways, fighting in your_ sanctioned_ war taught me more about being a murderer than my brief turn to the Dark Side. I certainly killed more people, by the thousands, during the Clone Wars than I did during forty-eight hours as Darth Vader."

The air in the room seems to thin with his pronouncement, sharp inhales punctuating the name Organa had deigned to hold as his trump card. He seems openly disappointed at being denied the ceremony of unveiling the emperor's infernal apprentice.

"You performed your duty as a Jedi during the Clone Wars," Olin says, characteristically stoic. "My master and I fought next to you." The cadence of his tone does not change. "You ordered the slaughter of some who fought with you when your troops stormed the Temple; many Jedi died by your hand. You turned not only on your closest comrades, but on the institution to which you had pledged yourself."

_No one screamed. Not the first killed – the shriveled gatekeeper who'd inadvertently led Vader to Master Shaak Ti – nor the valiant Jocasta Nu when she'd brandished her lightsaber, then fallen to his, nor the younglings he'd found hiding in the High Council Tower. Not even as he'd cleaved them, one by one, then worn their blood into the next vicious fight. _

_Or maybe they had. Enmeshed in the cold, frenzied passion of killing, the white noise of his lightsaber's deadly hum had swallowed every moan, shriek and plea. Once, he'd thought it was a mercy that he remembered little of his crimes. Now, it seems a cheapened comfort. _

Bel Iblis observes the tic of Anakin's mouth, the nearly imperceptible slump of his broad shoulders. "What could make one of the most powerful Jedi of the Order turn so brutally on his own? Was it all just about power?"

Anakin meets his eyes, holding his gaze steadily on Bel Iblis' graying beard. "I needed the power – was desperate for it, in fact – because I was convinced my wife and child were going to die." Padme's slim fingers find his on the table, yet another reminder that not all prophecies are as iron-clad as once believed, as a myriad of astonished expressions blossom, including an incredulous gape from Solo.

"I had grown close to the chancellor; too close and too trusting. He had manipulated me from the time I was a boy, seemed to have the solution I sought to save Padme from the vision I'd had of her death in childbirth. I was foolish enough to believe him."

The prospect seems unimaginable to those gathered around the table: a marriage so forbidden, so secretive, and yet so devout that the Jedi's luminary would commit the obscene to preserve it.

Olin leans forward on his elbows, response a mix of fascination and disgust. "Sidious promised to save Senator Amidala through the Dark Side?"

Anakin nods in assent, stomach lurching as he recalls his traumatic collapse at the Sith's feet in the ruins of Presidential Palace, his shell-shocked vow to the darkness.

In contrast to the massacre at the Temple, Mace Windu's screams as he'd been propelled through the shattered window would forever reverberate in Anakin's mind.

"He promised to save my wife if I pledged myself to the Sith. As the Force is my witness, I did not kill Master Windu. I tried to stop him from executing the chancellor, because I needed Palpatine alive, but my interference allowed Sidious to kill Master Windu with Sith lightning." Anakin's confession seems torn from him, phantoms of his past resurrected from the bottomless well of his shame. His hands visibly tremble, causing a metallic clink of durasteel as the binders clash.

"What next, Anakin?" Olin has dispensed of the formalities, emotion ebbing into his tone as images of the embattled Temple – charred, sublinated, defeated – imprint in his mind. "Sidious kept his end of your sinister bargain – your very-much alive wife and children are evidence of that. I would think your every allegiance would be to the _master_ who rescued your attachments, and yet you sit before us claiming to be a reformed Jedi."

The term "attachment" is scarcely uttered before Anakin's temper flares, a dagger within the Force that belies his outward expression of passivity. Ignoring Obi-Wan's rapid warning, Anakin regards Olin with scorn reminiscent of their antagonistic past. _Do not,_ he cautions, _refer to my family as attachments._

It is Obi-Wan who steps in, ever the diplomat, to reverse Olin's aggressive line of interrogation. "Padme and the children did not survive because of Anakin's dark affiliation, however brief. To the contrary, I am convinced they live because Anakin renounced the Dark Side and trusted his family's fate to the light."

Those not versed in the mysteries of the Force seem ill at ease. Mothma's eyes narrow, Bel Iblis inadvertently scoots his chair opposite the Jedi, even Olin, and Organa's eyes settle on Padme. The senator from Naboo, however, seems nearly serene, recalling many discussions regarding the entity that had guided her husband's life.

"A remarkable story, indeed," Mothma finally remarks. "Forgive my observation, but you seem quite… flexible in your beliefs, Knight Skywalker. You became a Sith to save your family; you reverted back to the Jedi when they survived. I don't believe I'm giving away alliance secrets when I say we are on the cusp of a rebellion that will require the commitment of every being loyal to the Republic. How can we be certain you will not become a turncoat if Sidious targets your children and dangles the Dark Side as their only salvation?"

The inquiry ignites a flashpoint of affront. It is demeaning, Anakin thinks as a quite un-Jedi like flush of anger reddens his cheeks, coils a tumult of rancor in his chest. It is _insulting_.

It is entirely valid. Obi-Wan doesn't have to prompt him; Anakin inhales, slowly, deeply, then releases his vitriol into the Force.

"Sidious has already targeted my children. I've spent the last standard year raiding Imperial garrisons and baiting stormtroopers to keep them as far from my family as possible. My first loyalty will always be to them, for which I offer no apology."

Bel Iblis taps his hand lightly on the table, contemplative. "Yes, your exploits are well-known. As is the sizeable price on your head. Your dubious success is the reason the galaxy still believes in the Jedi's Chosen One." He emits a sigh of melancholy for the Republic of old. Too late, he'd realized that a flawed Republic was far more obliging to its citizens than a coerced Empire.

"Rather ironic that the citizens of the Republic unknowingly revere the person who brought democracy to its knees."

"You're referring to Sidious, are you not?" Obi-Wan's rebuke is caustic; he brings his own restrained hands to the table with a satisfying clank of the cuffs. "Think hard, Senator, at your own role in the fall of the Republic before assigning the brunt of blame to a Jedi who served at your behest for a great many years. And make no mistake, Anakin Skywalker is _still_ a Jedi." Obi-Wan emphasizes the statement aloud and within the confines of the Force, ensuring Ferus Olin has crystalline understanding of exactly where the Jedi master's allegiance lies.

Luke selects this electrified moment to decide, in all of his toddler wisdom, that he's had enough of the unyielding handcuffs on his father's wrists. He's been working diligently at them for the last half-hour, worming his miniature fingers under the metal, but unable to grip his father's flesh without the stiff barrier.

A particular ruffle within the Force alerts Obi-Wan, Anakin and Olin that something is amiss, just in time for the three Jedi to watch an oblong key float lazily through the air, swaying past Mothma's, Padme's and Anakin's noses to slide with nary a clatter next to the tip of Anakin's forefinger.

Padme is the first to react, staring at her son, then her daughter, with a jumble of dismay and scant… delight. "Oh… dear. Leia? Luke – "

She hasn't time to deduce which of her gifted children orchestrated such a stunt before she's startled by the rather loud rattle of Anakin's binders as they vibrate for a few stunning moments around his wrist, then come undone with a simple snap. Obi-Wan's follow quickly enough that those at the table are left with a stunned, collective thought: _what in the nine hells just happened?_

Solo has the temerity to say it aloud, and with bare admiration as his mouth falls open. Now _there's _a neat little trick, he thinks, recalling scrapes in Socorro and Endor, and that particular kerfuffle in Kashyyyk when this freaktastic skill would've come in plenty handy.

Best to keep on friendly terms with the Skycrawlers.

Anakin's chest swells thoroughly with pride, though he heeds Obi-Wan's Force-directive of _Don't laugh, don't crack a smile. _It's supremely difficult, especially after Anakin swears he senses his children saluting one another with the Force version of a moppet high-five.

"What, may I ask," Mothma demands, rather spooked despite the adult Jedi whose presences should completely explain the tomfoolery, "was that?"

How Obi-Wan keeps that straight face, Anakin will never know, since he's practically bubbling with joy, though he supposes a proper father would be full of reproach and lecture for such an open display of his offspring's Force proclivities.

Well, blast them all, he decides, nudging Padme under the table with a secret grin. Who says I'm a proper father, anyway?

"That," Obi-Wan announces with a pleasant quirk to his mouth, "was Luke, deciding he'd had enough of his father in binders." Obi-Wan reaches toward the young one, whose gaping smile disarms the shocked coalition of senators, and tweaks his nose. "Well done, Luke."

"And Leia," Anakin supplies, stretching his bared wrists for effect, then caressing his daughter's curly hair, "deciding she wasn't to be outdone by her brother."

Mothma looks as if she could use one of those wretched Corellian concoctions Obi-Wan favors. Her complexion goes pasty as she flexes her own hands, wondering exactly where the binders may end up next.

"Oh, dear."

_Finis. For now. Those little Skywalkers have a flair for the dramatic, don't they? _

_A couple of notes for those who asked:_

_YouCantSeeMe: I absolutely agree that Han and Leia need to be separated soon, lest all of us OT faithful start getting squicked out. It will happen, but I'm having too much fun writing smart-arse Han right now. He's a kick. _

_Guest: I completely support your addiction. No 12-step group required, but you have my sincere thank you. _

_A couple of people took me to task for Anakin's uncharacteristic surrender in the last chapter. In my world, Ani would never endanger his little ones and he knows Padme would have his and Obi-Wan's hides if they play with their lightsabers near the twins, so he was being a good daddy. We all know how much I love badass Ani, so it was rough toning those instincts down, but necessary. _

_Have I said thank you to everyone who takes time from his or her days to read this one-shot gone wrong? If not, please give yourselves Wookiee-sized pats on the back and know how much I appreciate you! _


	22. Chapter 22

_Hi, all! I felt like I lost a little steam while writing this; my Force-fortified mojo left me for a bit as RL slammed me with crazy-busy stuff. I hope this meets with your approval. _

_I'd be remiss if I didn't thank those who continue to amaze me with their gracious favorites, follows, readership and comments: __**Fireshifter, Mireilles3, Raiukage, dragonmaster 63, PhantomFan13, KortneyBreAnne, Haley Renee, TeresaLynne, QueenYoda, .14, Jedi Angel001, Rogue Hellsing, actressen, catsonthemoon, Jedi Master Misty Sman-Esay, , WildHorseFantasy, elijahlover, AnakinlovesPadme, Queen Naberrie, Guest, Mo Angel, Abby and Liv Snigglebottom, Eldar-Melda **__and __**Skywalker's Phantom**__ – your Force-tastic comments helped pull me out of my funk. Thanks to you all!_

_And now… A lippy boy, a lot of talk and a scary blue lightsaber. _

Chapter 22:

Amused as he is by the Skycrawlers' antics, Solo suddenly feels the need to chat as all eyes rest upon the twins and, secondarily, on him as Luke beams in his hold.

"You know that dream when you see yourself walking into a smuggler's hideaway buck naked? The 'oh, _kriff_!' when you figure out your bare arse is hanging out, so, _of course,_ you don't have a blaster 'cuz there's nowhere to hide it?"

The throes of awkward silence grip the table, not that it matters to the lippy boy. He babbles on and finds that Luke – perched on Solo's lap and supremely satisfied with himself – looks back at him with that goofy, engaging, entirely _Luke_ grin on his little face.

"Yeah, I kinda feel like that right now." Solo gives the toddler an affectionate jab in the soft folds of his chest, evoking a giggle. "Bet you don't, you little drooligan. That was stoopa colossal! Just popped 'em right open without even_ touching_ anything! I don't s'pose you can teach me – "

"Han." Reading the slow seethe beginning to rise in Ferus Olin's inscrutable mask, Obi-Wan places a calming hand on the boy's forearm. "Please."

"What? You saw that, right? _Both_ of them." Trying to get a peek at Leia, Solo cranes his neck around the three sullen Jedi, although Anakin's eyes dance with something mischievous underneath his expression that's Way. Too. Serious.

Yeah, they're in a jam, Solo concedes with a hint of cavalier swagger. Nothing that nabbing one of those alliance blasters and some Jedi hocus pocus can't remedy. Solo's not _blind_; Obi-Wan and Anakin have obviously refrained from summoning their lightsabers, probably to avoid spooking the alliance lackeys. And, since Solo's seen how accomplished a Jedi can be with a mere flick of his pinkie, he knows that commanding a stray lightsaber is child's play.

As is snapping durasteel binders clean open, apparently.

Solo kicks himself mentally, wondering when he starting thinking of himself on _their_ side again. Coulda been when the Hero with No Fear confessed that his sordid deeds had been perpetrated with the misguided notion of saving the senator from Naboo.

It takes no leap at all to construe that the scamp from the Outer Rim would go beyond the outer rim of both morality and scruples to safeguard his pretty wife and ensure the birth of the Skycrawlers, who are aching reminders of the boy he used to be.

Kriff the boss-man, anyway, for making Solo give a scavenge rat's arse about him and his hard-luck history.

"Yes, we certainly did," Olin remarks when Solo snaps out of his trance, a chilly undertone to the Jedi's voice. Olin fixes his stare on Anakin, feels an absurd impulse to initiate mock applause for what he's just witnessed, except it wouldn't be a bit laughable. "It's wonderful that the children of the Chosen One are able to peddle their Force parlor tricks, considering the younglings from the Temple lack the heartbeats to do so."

The uneasy levity that had permeated the room dissipates at once. Perhaps finally worn to the bone by constant defensiveness and feeling a renewed spark in his former rivalry with Olin, Anakin's anger finds its outlet. "My transgressions at the Temple are well known, as is my deep regret! I cannot change the decisions I made, but I _can_ spend the rest of my lifetime making reparation to those I have hurt, if allowed to do so."

"You have already begun," Padme states, her hand in his quietly supportive. She straddles a fine thread, she knows, between neutral senator and loyal wife, but it is imperative that her sanction is known. She addresses Mothma and Bel Iblis, cuddles Leia closer as she glances with dismissive agitation at Organa.

"Your reticence is understandable, given the facts presented today. Before you demonize Anakin, however, I ask you to consider who among your colleagues championed the motion granting Sidious emergency powers during the Clone Wars." Under the table, Padme feels her husband's hand settle lightly on her hip, takes comfort from his little squeeze. "I was that champion, setting in motion a chain of events that allowed Sidious to erode the Galactic Constitution until he became a veritable bully to the galaxy's playground."

Her mouth curves into something less than lovely as she surveys the senators. It's a glare Anakin's rarely seen, as it cuts the target to the quick with brutal efficiency. "You know this, of course. We were all there, making excuses and concessions for Sidious' numerous power grabs as we made our own, convincing ourselves it was for the greater good."

Anakin contains the gratitude that bubbles within him. She's really something, his wife. Something brave, and breathtaking, yet made of a steely foundation that betrays her beauty. Every bit his sustenance and light-years more than that; the Chosen One's chosen one, thank the Force.

"We all must take accountability for the decisions we made, from the time Anakin appeared in Naboo with Qui-Gon Jinn, to this moment, as the aftereffects continue to plague the galaxy. Every betrayal of trust led us to this point. Our shared transgressions became a series of missteps that doomed the Republic."

"What of the Jedi?" Bel Iblis questions, hand thoughtfully on his chin. He neither shirks nor accepts the Senate's culpability, seeks perhaps to spread the layer more thinly between all parties. "As attuned as they were to the Sith, how is it that a dark lord operated so closely without detection?"

Obi-Wan visibly winces; this is not a new inquiry, as he's mulled it repeatedly during his exile to Tatooine, cursed himself profusely for his unwitting participation in Sidious' seduction of his padawan. "The best answer for that, Senator, is simply that Sidious was as devious and cunning a Sith as we'd ever encountered. Only when he revealed himself to Anakin as part of his carefully devised plan to turn him was Sidious' lifetime of deception uncovered. I believe it's accurate to say he fooled every being in the Jedi Order and the Republic who trusted him. Anakin, most of all."

Anakin's glance seems distant, etched with regret.

_Are you going to kill me? _Chancellor Palpatine – no, Darth Sidious – had asked. If only Anakin had analyzed the underlying villainy in the chancellor, he would have sensed maneuvering, goading, bald-faced spite. But those perceptions had surfaced only after he'd stormed the Temple – the first gnawing indications that he'd been artfully duped.

_I would really like to._ If only he had, on that occasion, allowed his instincts to rule his actions, Sidious would be dead. His children could, quite possibly, be romping in the tranquil surf of their mother's home planet, dreaming in the bedroom she'd envisioned near the sapflower-strewn gardens. He wouldn't feel the twisted sense of shame gutting him from the inside and eroding every principle he'd ever formed about who he is, as a Jedi, a father and a man.

He would still be a killer, pieces of his soul sacrificed to the Clone Wars, but, at least to this representation of the Republic, his murders would be untarnished, legitimate.

Ironic, Anakin muses bitterly, how hollow it feels to kill, regardless of the name under which he does it.

Just as his breath might accelerate, anxiety rising under the crest of judgment, there is a voice, with its balm of steadiness saturating the Force:

_You are not that man, Anakin. You never were. _

"Why not you, Master Kenobi?" Mothma asks, eyes intent as they move from Obi-Wan, rest briefly on Anakin, then dart back on the russet-bearded Jedi. "You lived under the same strains and responsibilities as Knight Skywalker. As did you, Knight Olin." Her vision shifts to the dark-haired knight, sitting ramrod straight in his seat. "Why is it that neither of you turned to the Dark Side?"

Obi-Wan takes a cleansing breath as he gathers his patience. The Jedi Order, steeped in its traditions but spiced with mysticism, has always been an anomaly to the public beings of the galaxy.

"To believe most Jedi do not touch darkness would be a falsehood," Obi-Wan answers candidly, his unbound hands slowly clenching, then loosening as if in measured movement. "I have been tantalized by it before, lured by its promises." He does not spare a glance at Olin; the Bellassan's infractions will be his to disclose. "As have many illustrious knights of the Order, including my master, one of the finest Jedi of our times."

Anakin's head drops dejectedly at the mention of a man both fair-haired Jedi equate to a father figure, even though the code to which they'd pledged their lives prohibits such endearment.

"Sidious – " Obi-Wan's disdain for the Sith is openly bitter " – knew from the time we brought Anakin to the Temple of his great Force-potential. He made a point to see Anakin often, said he felt indebted because Anakin had saved his homeworld." Obi-Wan shakes his head, mouth contorting as he addresses his former padawan, voice skewed with apology. "The High Council thought it would be positive for you to have a mentor outside the Temple. Sidious groomed you from your boyhood, Anakin, wormed his way inside your mind and made his move when you were most vulnerable. You had every reason to mistrust the Council when we asked you to spy on the chancellor, knowing that you were fond of his 'attention.'"

Obi-Wan's eyes are downcast but sincere, timbre dropping to a husk. _Jedi don't concede._ The rules tumble through his mind, teachings embedded by Yoda and Master Vant, but not a peep of this from Qui-Gon, strangely enough. _Jedi don't apologize, they don't openly admit error, they don't, they don't…_

_He_ does, which, Obi-Wan realizes, may make him more the gray Jedi of Qui-Gon's ilk than he'd realized. The thought that he is more like Anakin than he'd ever considered is oddly pleasing. "Sidious isn't the only person who betrayed you. We didn't – _I_ didn't realize what a danger he was."

_You don't have to do this._ Anakin's acceptance rings through the Force; both Obi-Wan and Olin hear it clearly.

"The Council's ignorance was shared," Padme adds soberly, surveying her colleagues with a slow, potent glance, "by the Senate. Sidious was my countryman and my ally_,_ and not once did I suspect his duplicity. Not _once._"She pauses for a moment, jigging Leia's little fingers and drinking in her daughter's spritely innocence to bolster herself even as emotion chokes her_. "_Not when he'd summon you at all hours of the night, not when you returned from the sieges so… haunted and my instincts told me his influence was somehow intertwined."

Padme reaches for her husband, her palm sliding through his wavy hair. After years of worry that her glimmering joy each time he was near would uncloak their secret, she finds the thrill of simply not caring intoxicating. "You felt alone because you _were_ alone; isolated by a monster who had manipulated you since you were a child."

Unbidden, Anakin's cheek yields to the curve of her hand, his eyes only for his wife. "I was a man, love. Despite the circumstances, I made the choice and I must bear the responsibility. Master Yoda tried to warn me about where my fear would lead, but I was so hard-headed – "

"_Your_ fear." Obi-Wan practically leaps from his seat, startling the group as he stalks quickly from the table. His placid expression belies his troubled countenance, which throbs keenly through the Force. "There was so much fear from us all regarding you, Anakin. You were afraid of the lofty mantle you'd been given – the Chosen One – and all that came with it. The Jedi were certainly fearful of you, because your power was evident from the day you appeared before Council."

_The wrinkled, green creature with the triangular ears spoke in a manner Anakin had never heard – almost comical, if not for the humorless tone that reminded him of his own after he'd digested a mouthful of grit during a sandstorm. _

"_I sense much fear in you." Although numerous eyes of the strange Jedi masters concentrated on him, only the grand master they called Yoda's had penetrated. Anakin wondered fleetingly if the shiver in his frame was caused by the chill of Coruscant, or by the uncertainty emanating from those he sought painfully to please. _

"_I am not afraid!" It wouldn't be the only falsehood the boy from Tatooine uttered in front of the council, merely the first. _

Obi-Wan's face softens as he recalls his own tumultuous rumblings when Qui-Gon had announced his intent to train Anakin. For the "model Jedi" he was purported to be, his emotions, rather than his rationale, had emerged. "Fear encompassed us all. The prophecy of the Chosen One – " Obi-Wan watches as Anakin's face darkens at the term, even with Padme's fingers lightly gripping his shoulder " – became more important than the well-being of a small boy who'd been taken from all he'd known. We were so focused on destiny that it was conveniently forgotten that you were a human being."

Obi-Wan's warmth within the Force wafts through Anakin, satiating a tremor he could, by nature, dismiss to the ever-present cold icing the skin a desert-born boy. He's come to welcome the newfound transparency of his thoughts, however.

The excuse would never fly with his master, anyway, not after all this.

Obi-Wan's words echo through the room, hushed with lament. "Yoda preached against fear, and yet we were all fairly drowning in it."

Bel Iblis straightens in his chair, the conflict of his thoughts a wavering pulse within the Force. "I find it difficult to understand how some 'fall,' as you say, and others do not. Was it your attachments, Knight Skywalker, that led to your fall? I assume the Jedi banned such relationships for this very reason."

Attentions drift to the pale- and dark-haired replicas of the Skywalker parents. Luke and Leia, unaware, bang their little hands on the table with unmitigated glee and seem to communicate, even though they're two adults apart. First Leia, with two bangs, then Luke answering with four, then the drumbeat clap of little hands on the table reaches a frantic pace until their parents coax them into relative silence.

The twins, all around the table note, seem to respond obediently to… _something_ even when no words are spoken aloud, deepening the mystery of the Jedi to those unfamiliar with their ways.

Obi-Wan responds before Anakin's ire reaches an apex, though the master has felt his former padawan's discontent veer from simmer to boil throughout this inquisition. "Anakin's strength is, and has always been, derived from those he loves. It might be averse to the ways of the Jedi, but it is central to his intrinsic balance." The Jedi master catches Leia's sooty-wide eye, brushes her always-eager mind with a private smile.

"Anakin has never responded as a typical Jedi, because he is not, nor has he ever been, typical. Qui-Gon was drawn to him because he was remarkably _atypical, _in fact. Yet, despite his – " is that a little smirk from the Jedi master? " – _individuality_, there is no circumstance I can fathom in which he'd willingly choose the dark again."

First Leia, then Luke, tickle their mentor's mind through the Force, keeping admirably unaffected expressions for two so young. Obi-Wan has to stifle a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching in time with Anakin's, who shares the joke even as the tenor of Obi-Wan's declaration is undeniably serious.

"He simply has too much to lose."

Yes, Anakin tacitly concurs, using the Force to caress his children's apple cheeks, imbuing a bit more boldness into the touch that crawls down his wife's forearm, I certainly do.

Those surrounding them seem decidedly unmoved, gazes flickering from uncertain to stony skepticism. The mistrust in the air seems a live, dubious crackle. Obi-Wan has an unsettling theory that a piece of this baffling puzzle has been hidden; part of the scenario laid bare, yet the lynchpin concealed without his knowledge that it even exists.

Organa speaks with a frosty bite. "Forgive our cynicism, but events of past days necessitate our utmost care." His tapered fingers stretch in an interminably lengthy movement, then clench near the silken sleeves of his robes. "Just three standard days ago, there was a brutal attack on an allied stronghold in Laramus. Imperial troops identified from the 501st Legion – the elite unit formerly under your command, General Skywalker – stormed the base under the direction of a dark warrior brandishing a blue lightsaber."

For the somberness of the news he recaps, Organa's demeanor takes on a smugness that evokes a lurch in Padme's stomach. Ever the stoic senator, her tiny gasp dies in her throat as she feels Anakin tense beside her.

Obi-Wan Force-mutters it first: _I've got a bad feeling about this._

"Nearly two hundred of our men were killed. The base commander managed to capture a hologram on an Arfour unit before he was decapitated." A datapad appears from an aide who is suddenly at Mothma's side.

A fuzzy, azure-tinged image materializes with a blur of furious motion. The ivory helmets of Imperial stormtroopers advance methodically through a winding maze of blaster fire, deadly and impersonal as they cut a swathe of suppression through alliance soldiers clad in dull brown. The background of inhuman explosives mingling with blood-curling howls of those destroyed by them creates a maelstrom that bounces, undaunted, from one side of Anakin's brain to the other like a pallie caught in a sandstorm.

All eyes are drawn to an imposing figure in ebony as it charges headlong through the melee with an aggression that is both feral and controlled, a flash of blue light acting as a predatory extension of his gloved hand.

Whereas a Jedi would customarily shed his heavy cloak in preparation for battle, this dark warrior, whether in vanity or ignorance, dismisses the midnight covering that swirls about him. The billowing cape half-conceals the violence of his weapon as it arcs with a horrible grace through alliance defenders, carves man and machine with equal efficiency and leaves clawing trails of blood in its stealthy wake.

This, Obi-Wan thinks, is no Jedi. And yet, he fights like…

Anakin had always possessed an incomparable fluidity of movement that transcended mere fighting prowess. In his sure hands, his lightsaber wasn't merely a weapon at his disposal; it was a conduit of his thoughts, moving nimbly, a symphony of motion without a microsecond of hesitancy, becoming a partner to Anakin's near-balletic footwork.

At times, Obi-Wan would equate Anakin's adroit fighting style to the most intricate of dances. With his former padawan a confident lead, his lightsaber followed his innate direction with a supple beauty that was spellbinding.

The resemblance of the dark being's fighting style to Anakin's ferocious elegance is uncanny.

Those around the table are anything but transfixed. As Padme's hand goes clammy in Anakin's and Obi-Wan hears his former padawan asserting, _Not me, not me, not me_ in the Force, Mothma emits a piercing glower that could drop a sentry at a hundred paces.

"Knight Skywalker, you have my undivided attention. I'm highly curious for your explanation as to what situation, exactly, caused your 'fall' this time." Her stare hardens, as do the stances of a half-dozen alliance soldiers; the crisp heel-to-toe of their boots announces their presence outside the door.

I _told_ you, Solo raves inwardly, unconsciously shifting Luke to his thigh that rests the furthest from Anakin – or is it His Royal Slippery Sithness, now? This, he thinks as he eyes the room for escape routes, is one of those tricky situations when a blaster would really come in handy. Two, even better.

Mothma, however, is uninterested in the boy's ruminations. Unwavering gaze plastered on the man known both as Anakin Skywalker and Darth Vader, she requests in a tone that is much more a demand, "Please. Don't leave anything out."

_Finis. For now. _

_You know what to do after you read, right? Pound a few comments out of the keyboard to let me know what you liked, what made you want to take a blaster to a certain member of the alliance __**cough, Organa, cough** and what in Yoda's name you think will happen next! _


	23. Chapter 23

_There was a bunch of unrest in the comments section after the last chapter, so this update is quicker than usual. Easy, folks. Ani and the Skywalkers (a good Disney band name, yes?) will persevere. And about that dark warrior dude…_

Chapter 23

_It's not me. You know it's not me!_

Of course it's not him. Those who traveled with Anakin to Alderaan know exactly where he was three moons ago, and if not for Obi-Wan's blasted boot-shining ritual, there would still be grains of sand in his treads to prove it.

But as Anakin repeats the anguished Force-declaration to his wife, eyes glossy as he wills her to believe him, absurdity has circumvented rationale. What should be blatantly obvious now has him frantic to confirm without a flicker of doubt, especially as glares of recrimination spread from alliance senators to outcast Jedi.

Kriff 'em all, Anakin bristles, scrabbling for Padme's hand. The others are of no consequence at this moment; _she_ must believe him.

Because not that long ago, that soulless killer _was_ him.

He clutches her hand, fingers stitching tightly with hers as if he'll never relinquish them. "It's not – " he insists, more clamorous, the pitch of his voice rising.

"Of course it's not." Her response, calm and resolute, thaws the icy fist that had embedded in his chest. She captures his face in her small hands, holding firmly at his cheeks as if to jolt him from his stupor. "Never again, Ani. I know that."

He sags against her chair, boneless with relief. _I wish I had your unerring faith, love. _

"That is not Anakin." Obi-Wan keeps his voice an unshakable monotone as he stares down the united panel of alliance compatriots, eyes bright with fervor. "I don't know who that is, but Anakin was on Tatooine with us three days ago, dodging Imperials. He's been causing havoc for the Empire the last standard year. Why do you suspect him?"

It's a Jedi fib; Obi-Wan full well _knows_ why.

"The dark one is obviously a Force-user. Commanding General Skywalker's former regiment. And there is more to the hologram." Although Olin's sober expression betrays no emotion, his unease rebounds through the Force: frustration, but no anger; uncertainty, rather than judgment.

He's trying to be impartial, the Jedi master realizes, but evidence is persuading Olin otherwise. "You will see the face is that of the Chosen One, Obi-Wan."

"No!" Anakin's hands slam the tabletop in fierce agitation, a violent crack so jolting that both twins gasp startled cries. The accused rises in quick, jarring outrage, claiming his innocence with a scowl and a stalk about the room. "I take responsibility for what I've done because it is revolting enough. But I am not that man anymore, vape it!"

"You'll find the hologram quite compelling, Knight Skywalker," Mothma reiterates with eerie quietude. She does not verbalize further allegations, merely reactivates the holo and winces with the rest through the atrocities of battle as attentions focus on the onyx-clad assassin.

His technique, Obi-Wan notes with grim acknowledgement, is superb, fusing complex styles for brutal efficacy even as he exalts in vainglory.

As if all should find killing so… satisfactory.

The voluminous folds of the hood yield glimpses of the man's brows, cheekbones, ear, the fleeting glimmer of gold-tinged eyes as he snarls orders at coldly-obedient stormtroopers. Moving swiftly through legions of defenders, the killer in black disposes of more alliance troops than many of the clones combined.

After a particularly vicious series of offensive thrusts, the cowl is shaken completely from the warrior's honey-colored head just as his lightsaber cleaves a hapless rebel. Alliance compatriots, already privy to the unveiling, remain stoically silent, but Padme's inhale and Anakin's hushed "no!" resonate through the room.

_It's not me._ And yet, it is innately disturbing, this vision of the contemptible path Anakin would have taken, if not for the dual beacons of light that are now flexing their lungs with impressive stamina.

For Obi-Wan, the chilling déjà vu harkens him back to a different hologram viewed with a solemn Master Yoda. Amid the smoldering ruination of the Jedi Temple, there had been another ebony cloak, dripping from the face of a boy turned into a creature his master didn't recognize for the yellowed decay of once-blue eyes.

The Jedi master is, at once, infuriated at Sidious' bald-faced gall_._ "That Sithspawn son-of-a-Hutt _cloned_ you."

Obi-Wan moves from the table with a determined shove, scanning the room from one end to the other, then scattering alliance troops near the doorway with a bellow. "Artoo!" No sign of the loyal droid. "You – " he summons the alliance aide with an air of authority he does not possess. Act like you're in charge and you will be, he'd always instructed Anakin. " – Find our astromech droid. He'll have an interesting say in this."

The aide pauses for Mothma's nod of assent before departing with a curt bow. Within a moment, a bustling Artoo rolls animatedly toward Obi-Wan, his whistles carrying a distinctly unhappy twitter at being sequestered.

"Can you sharpen this holo image, Artoo? We need to visualize the cloaked figure more clearly. It's vitally important."

Two beeps and a trill. _Of course,_ the faithful droid replies, extending an arm promptly to access the datapad. It takes scant seconds for the blurred cyan image to crisp exponentially, the dark figure's characteristics becoming more prominent, frame by frame, until the striking features of Anakin Skywalker crystallize with supreme definition.

This is _bad_.

Why in the kriffin' hells, then, Anakin wonders, is Obi-Wan smiling like a blasted fool? And the Solo boy right along with him, his lopsided grin gaping as if he's clinched the most lucrative sabacc pot in Cloud City?

"Don't you see it?" Solo yells excitedly, pointing toward the holo with finger erect so no one can possibly miss his argument. "Or _not_ see it, really." He's unsure why he's so… elated by his finding, as there's still plenty of anger left in his "pissed at Anakin" till.

Jostling a fussy Luke from one arm to the other, Solo runs the pad of his finger along the splice near Anakin's right eye, then indicates the identical area on the stilled holo. "No scar. There's your proof. Not the boss-man."

Might be the only time Anakin is tempted to express his_ gratitute to_ Asajj Ventress for her smug acumen with a saber.

Alliance eyes narrow, scrutinizing the telltale brow of the dark figure. "A scar can be concealed," Bel Iblis remarks, skeptical. "Everything else – the fighting style, the movements, even the voice – indict you, Knight Skywalker. We are expected to believe the emperor somehow kept a clone of the most celebrated Jedi in the galaxy hidden from view?"

"It wouldn't be that difficult," Anakin snaps, patience again on the short end as the freeze-framed holo repeats. "My DNA was in practically every med center in the galaxy from various conflicts and the Clone Wars. And we were clueless about _millions_ of clones on Kamino until Obi-Wan went poking around. If you can hide an entire army, what's one Jedi impostor?"

The audience, Anakin observes, is swayed, yet unconvinced.

"The dark one's similarities to your specific combat styles are troubling," Organa remarks dully. "How could such skills – which, by the Jedi's own admission take years to perfect – be adopted by a clone in such a brief timeframe?"

"You obviously did not frequent the holonet during the Clone Wars, Senator," Padme rejoins with a surly edge. "The Jedi were fodder for every media source in the galaxy until the emperor's blacklist. The team of Skywalker and Kenobi was a favorite topic."

She graciously ignores Obi-Wan's scarcely discernible correction of "Kenobi and Skywalker," continuing smoothly, "As I scoured the holonet each night for news of my husband, I often found lengthy holos of Anakin and Obi-Wan in combat. Does that not constitute an effective training tool?"

Olin's head inclines toward the image. "One does not learn such skills by viewing holos," he informs with utmost politeness toward Padme. The two other Jedi nod in agreement. How many halved practice sabers and stinging wounds had it taken before Anakin had finally bested Obi-Wan in the Temple's proving grounds?

"This clone would have undergone rigorous training. His style is overtly aggressive, instincts honed by the dark." Olin advances the holo, pinpointing snapshots of the warrior's tendencies. "It isn't enough for him to win the battle; he must _conquer_." He halts on an image of the dark warrior towering over a bloodied and bowed alliance soldier, the assassin holding his lightsaber overhead to strike. "He pays no heed if they submit; they must be _subjugated_."

Anakin's eyes close. It had been so easy, after his fall. The Dark Side had flowed with the silk of the finest Nabooian wine throughout his body, awakening cells he hadn't known existed, firing his wolfish craving for _more._

He remembers the first frightening, exhilarating rush. He remembers Mustafar.

_It's been pulsing like a live wire since it invaded his body. Whereas the lightness always seemed so smooth, effortless, flowing yet never overpowering, the dark side is insistent, demanding, almost goading him to use his power so others will be awed and beholden._

"Dark acolytes," Anakin mumbles, snatches of a fevered conversation coalescing in his mind. "Before I left for Mustafar, Sidious asked if I required reinforcements. Said he had disciples at covert outposts throughout the galaxy." His stare at Obi-Wan is hard. "Much like the Jedi Order, but not nearly as organized. I-I didn't even remember it until now."

His master's expression turns grim. There is no satisfaction in knowing that certain members of the Order had been correct in assuming the dark threat amounted to more than a few renegade Sith. "Master Sifo-Dyas predicted as much. That explains why he commissioned the creation of the clone army. The Council didn't support him, so he moved in secret."

"You Jedi and your secrets," Solo mutters, earning three silent rebukes.

"Secret clones, hidden henchmen… Are you offering a credible theory or quoting a dramatic storyline from Galaxies Opera House?" Organa booms, fist clenched and vibrating a few standard feet from Anakin. "The only evidence we have that _he_ is not the Vader in that holo is a scar that could have been concealed and the testaments of those who have reason to lie on his behalf."

Padme recoils as if soundly slapped, even as her husband exudes a steely calm he does not feel. Though he has the least to lose, Solo thinks now might be as good a time as any to clock that smarmy senator right in his smarmy, well-groomed face.

Before he can act on his impulse, however, a string of whistles interrupts. Anakin tilts his head in deference to Artoo, his ire draining with sarcastic relish. "Why thank you, Artoo." To the group, the Jedi informs, "He said that _thing_ doesn't look a bit like me."

Swinging his head back to his droid, Anakin utilizes the datapad to forward the holo, skipping every few frames to converse with the astromech, then halts at Artoo's abrupt chirrup. "Ha! You're right." The Jedi's pat on the silvery dome is admirably affectionate, his demeanor visibly brightening. "Looks like you saved my arse again, my friend."

Beep, beep, emphatic whistle. "You did _not_ owe me one. Imperial City was my fault, and – "

"I don't suppose you'd like to tell us what has you so chipper?" Obi-Wan demands, palms spread in the galaxy-wide gesture of impatience. "Either of you?"

There's a crackle of leather as Anakin flexes the covered cybernetic fingers of his right hand. "Artoo, isolate on the _clone's _right glove and enlarge it, please." The droid complies, and in a blink the frozen holo image displays an ebony glove stretched tightly to facilitate a firm grip around the hilt of a lightsaber.

There's a sizeable hole in the leather, torn asymmetrically to expose not the metallic glint of durasteel, but a fawn-colored patch of human flesh.

"I can remove my glove to demonstrate the difference, if you like," Anakin offers, indignant pride returning by hints to his tone. "But I assure you, the arm underneath _my_ glove is not human. Nor do I have a synth-flesh layer that can be mistaken for human skin." His triumphant glare is directed solely at Organa. "Doesn't seem so outlandish anymore, does it, _Senator_?"

"A shiny of Anakin Skywalker, Force help us," Obi-Wan confirms, allowing himself a chuckle in attempt to temper the room's frosty atmosphere. "That thing is far too flawless to be you, anyway. You're more banged up than the last three ships you've landed, and that is not a compliment."

Anakin swipes at his marred brow with exaggerated flourish, unfazed. "You should see a little more action, old man. My wife says the scars make me look rugged and dangerous." He sneaks a teasing wink to his beloved and suffers a none-too-gentle thump to his shin under the table in return.

Obi-Wan instantly guffaws. "Yes, your wife _would_ say that. She'll also tell you the sand of Tatooine matches that lovely shade of your eyes if it will get you to handle the twins' diapers before bedtime."

"Hey, you've _seen_ what Luke is capable of after a hearty dinner – "

A conspicuously loud clearing of Mothma's throat squelches the banter. "Gentlemen? My apologies if the rebellion is interrupting your… squabble, but it seems we have a bigger predicament here than the nappies of impish Jedi twins." She gestures for Obi-Wan to reclaim his seat and formally bows in concession before Anakin, then urges him to sit, as well. "Knight Skywalker, our assumption appears to have been proven incorrect. For that, you have my utmost apologies."

"I'm not sure I'm inclined to accept them," the young Jedi grumbles, mood souring in time with a sense that he's escaped disaster by the narrowest whisker. Again. "And I haven't yet heard that all in this room are convinced."

Uneasy glances pass between alliance leadership. Olin, maddeningly thoughtful to a Jedi fault, rests his hand on his chin before speaking with measured words. "I don't sense deception in any of you. My confusion stems from the fact that Sidious very publicly declared Anakin an enemy of the Empire, then paraded the clone Anakin as his new apprentice. It's not logical."

Obi-Wan shares Olin's pause of contemplation, slowly stroking his beard as various theories take shape. With the Dark Side's penchant for thriving on fear, perhaps the goal was to foment a frenzy of it?

"Either way, Anakin is nullified," the master finally posits. "Sidious knows Anakin's alive. And after the fireworks at Imperial Palace, he's realized Anakin will kill him, eventually.

"It doesn't matter which side manages to apprehend him; Anakin ends up in a cell with either the Empire or the Republic as his jailer. Or, even better, he gets himself killed. Either way, Sidious ensures that the only one who can defeat him is far from Imperial Center as that Sith madman – " Obi-Wan's teeth fairly gnash with distaste " – grooms the new Vader, who conveniently possesses both the appearance and the skills of the Chosen One. The galaxy will not know whether to love or hate him, but with holos like this, its citizens will fear his wrath."

Bel Iblis and Organa say little, seeming to digest the new information as Mothma appraises Anakin with fresh perspective. "We have been following your exploits for the past year, Knight Skywalker, even as we were wary of your intentions. You've sabotaged some of the Empire's most advanced weapons of war." Her hands stretch across the table, fingernails the spotless ivory of one who commands others for a living. "The incendiary devices you detonated at Imperial Center a few months ago – your own creation, I surmise? Our insiders smuggled remains to our munitions experts after the dust settled. They'd never seen anything as potent for the size."

Anakin nods. The insect-like explosives had been relatively simple to design, compared to the scores of droids, vehicles and other devices he'd had to piecemeal together as Watto's haphazard mechanic.

"Interesting. Word from our friends in the palace was that you came within a bantha's hair of neutralizing the emperor; nearly did yourself in, as well. That was quite brave, Knight Skywalker." Mothma flashes a sympathetic half-grin in Padme's direction. "And incredibly risky." Her lips press in a thin line as Mothma exhales, seeming to ponder something with great deliberation.

Abruptly, the leader of the fledgling rebellion stands, chestnut-colored robe rustling as she walks toward the Skywalker twins, whose heads have nestled into the chests of Solo and Padme, energy depleted.

"I offer my apologies at our lack of hospitality. You must be stale and famished from your trip, and I am sure the children could use some rest in proper beds. Please, let us escort you to our visitors' quarters so you can freshen up." Instantly, Mothma's aide scurries away to tend to her directives.

"In a few hours, we will regroup in the dining hangar. Our fare isn't gourmet, but it is hot and filling. Occasionally tasty, as well." Her eyes fall on Obi-Wan and Anakin, reading their piqued curiosities, undertones of caution.

"I think we have no choice but to start trusting each other. Please bring your appetites, and, over Garqi caff, we will discuss how your talents can assist us in bringing the Empire to its knees."

With a pivot on a dainty, heeled shoe, Mothma departs. She is followed in succession by Bel Iblis and Organa, clearly taken aback, as well as a more sedate Olin.

The crew from Tatooine is left to pass the dead-to-the-galaxy twins to Anakin and Obi-Wan as Solo and Padme loosen kinks formed from an abundance of time spent on their behinds. And Solo thought life on that dustbowl moved at a snail's pace.

Once their alliance hosts, save the sentry charged with glorified Jedi-sitting, have taken their leaves, Obi-Wan's sigh articulates what all have been thinking since Mothma's stunning about-face from chief cynic to budding collaborator.

"What in the kriffin' hells have we gotten ourselves into?"

_Finis. Until the next chapter, of course. _

_Hope this tied up the loose ends. I got a boatload of questions from the last chapter, so here goes:_

**How come the alliance didn't know Anakin had been sabotaging the Empire for the last year?** **They seem kind of clueless.** _I'd call it an abundance of caution. Anakin was a one-man wrecking crew after Mustafar, but he was off the grid until he blew himself up (typing that never ceases to amuse me). Bail and Obi-Wan were communicating, but neither was talking about Anakin. Bail had suspicions of what happened on Mustafar; Obi-Wan was tight-lipped. That uncertainty and the holo of New Vader led to the frosty reception on Alderaan. _

**Will the Skywalker family be divided?**_ Highly unlikely, as it would send Ani straight to the Dark Side. Which wouldn't be such a bad thing, except I've already tortured him. A lot. Maybe more… _

**How come you have a chip on your shoulder about Bail?** _Confession: I wanted Ani to raise his daughter. It's not canon, I know. But in my AU world, Bail isn't so honorable because he lost the little Skywalker he thought was his. My apologies to Bail fans._

**How come the Senate is takes no responsibility for not knowing there was a Sith lord in its midst?** _Because they're politicians who have mastered the art of deny, deny, deny. Padme had a front-row seat as wife, Jedi fangirl and senator, and she still didn't suspect._ _At least she cops to it._

_**What's the deal with Olin?** I have no special love or hate for Olin. I thought a more antagonistic Jedi needed to be in the mix for some conflict, but I'm actually starting to like him. _

_Special note to QueenYoda and others who have no reply mechanism but are kind enough to read and comment: I'd love to chat with you somehow, especially when you ask questions. I'm not ignoring, honest! Let me know if we can converse._

_QueenYoda: Your comments are awesome! Please, carry on. As for cloning Obi-Wan… I'm all for it. Ewan McGregor looks awfully good in a mullet and Jedi robes. Just sayin.' _

_And, of course, thank you most kindly to the folks who follow, favorite and give it to me straight in the comments section: __**Rogue Hellsing, FireShifter, Mireilles3, Jedi Master Misty Sman-Esay, QueenNaberrie, QueenYoda, Skywalker's Phantom, Jedi Angel001, PhantomFan13, Andromakhe, Mo Angel, Haley Renee, Eldar-Melda, whytry7, TeresaLynn, Guest, angie, Raiukage, , Abby and Liv Snigglebottom**__ and __**Bonhamrules**__. A Han Solo action figure to you all! _


	24. Chapter 24

_All in a night's dinner with the alliance folks. Someone has a wardrobe malfunction, the alliance spells it out and a Jedi bromance continues…_

_Chapter 24_

_He needs to stop looking at her like that. Or at all._

It's a prickly grumble within the Force that reminds Obi-Wan, for the nth time in the past few days, that a bitching-and-moaning Anakin Skywalker is an _alive_ Anakin Skywalker.

Since that was a tenuous condition just a few weeks earlier, he'll ignore his former padawan's excess of foul oaths. Along with Anakin's unpolished table manners, to which the Jedi master mourns his lack of awareness years earlier.

_You, of all people, should understand how hurtful it would be to lose a child like Leia,_ Obi-Wan attempts to pacify as a spoonful of steaming broth crosses his lips. _Organa has done nothing untoward. We must be cooperative. _

_She is __my__ daughter! _The interjection is a whip of lightning through the Force, bold and possessive_. _But before Obi-Wan can react, Anakin's signature calms, the flashpoint of his anger lulled into jabs of annoyance.

_I suppose it would not be 'cooperative' if that bowl of sauce finds itself in Organa's lap? _

Obi-Wan dabs tolerantly at the corner of his mouth, savoring the piquant taste of nerf cube stew. _Can we not simply eat in peace?_ he gripes back, thoroughly enjoying the texture against his tongue. _It's been far too long since I've had anything that grains of sand didn't find their way into – _

A clatter in the folds of a certain senator's amethyst robe brings the attentions of collective Jedi, rebellion leaders and Force-sensitive children who don't-yet-but-will-very-soon know better to a rather mortifying place: Bail Organa's lap.

A sizable bowl dripping with malla petal sauce rests between his legs, upturned almost too perfectly, faintly pink liquid oozing outward.

Luke sits on his father's knee, mouth sticky and rimmed with both blue milk and a magnificent grin.

Fortunately, most at the table are immersed in various stages of mopping up Organa's crotch, offering cloth napkins and sympathetic exclamations, to notice the triumphant little boy.

Father's eyes meet son's, identical shades of blue reading the other as Obi-Wan fairly sputters his earthy Chimbak wine back into the goblet from which it came.

The Jedi master's legendary poise holds. Barely. _Did Luke just –_

_I think he did, yes._

It's one of the only times Anakin has seen shock blanket Obi-Wan's face. _He __heard__ you. Understood you… __Stop laughing!_

Oh, but it's difficult…_ Does it look like I'm laughing?_ Anakin's expression is as humorless as Obi-Wan has seen it… on the outside.

_You know very well you find this quite entertaining, _Obi-Wan chides, although his own Force-chortle threatens to break free.

Aloud, Obi-Wan manages an innocuous phrase for Anakin's ears, tone as even as if discussing the amiable Alderaanian weather.

"Apparently, we need to initiate their training – "

" – much sooner than anticipated," Anakin finishes, searching his wife's Force-signature and palpably relieved that it emits empathy, rather than an emotion he's labeled "spousal unrest." "Padme's going to kill me if they keep this up."

Obi-Wan cannot resist a blasé roll of his sage eyes. "Then maybe we'll let them go at it a bit longer."

When they glance around the table as inconspicuously as is prudent to survey who may have spied Luke's episode of Force mischief, they find Solo's eyes widely amused as he demolishes a second helping of roast gorak.

"He had it comin,'" the boy mutters, voice low but approving. "He kept lookin' at Leia like she was his or somethin.' Sleemo."

Between Solo's sanction and Luke's cheeky grin, Anakin couldn't have said it better.

x x x

x

The Skywalker parents are persuaded, somewhat reluctantly, to part with their drowsy children as the first cups of Garqi caff are served. Mindful of Luke's latest antic, Anakin's arms linger around his boy before relinquishing him to the care of Artoo and Threepio.

"Sleep well, Luke," Anakin whispers, ruffling the tot's hair with a muted scowl before he and Padme alternate kisses on his daughter's cheek. "Rest easy, Leia." _And be good, son._

Luke's sleepy smile, peppered with a few teeth, is his only reply.

No one bothers to excuse Solo, not that he would comply. Whatever is to occur in this room will undoubtedly affect where his boots land next, so he settles by Obi-Wan and props a knee casually on the table.

Engrossed, the boy measures what he considers to be the combatants of this verbose galactic brawl. From what he's seen so far, it isn't difficult to register a private wager that will never be settled.

My credits are on Kenobi and Skywalker, Solo thinks, then hunkers in for the fireworks.

Obi-Wan's posture is stiff, partly due to the lingering tension, but mostly from the absence of his ever-present lightsaber. It seems obtuse that his and Anakin's hips are too light, yet Olin's battered hilt rests easily near his belt.

No matter. Something in the Force tells Obi-Wan his skills at negotiation will be in play, rather than his fighting prowess.

"As I mentioned before, this is a critical time for the rebellion," Mothma begins after she is assured that yes, everyone was satisfied with dinner and no, the caff is not too strong. "Many factions have joined with a unified goal of restoring democracy to the galaxy. Of course, you are intimately aware of the opposition we face in doing so."

_Tell us something we don't already know, if you will,_ Obi-Wan sniffs.

A quick poke penetrates his ribs, even though Anakin sits two people to his right. _Patience, Master._

"As the elected leader of our organization, I am both excited and fearful of where our next actions could take us. We walk a tightrope between justified rebellion and provisional treason, at least in the minds of our citizens. Make no mistake, public support may be the intangible factor that propels us to victory."

It's a nice enough speech, Anakin thinks, sharing a somewhat jaded glance with his master. They've both heard plenty of slick presentations from even slicker politicians, which had been part of the problem within the Old Republic. With each organization jockeying to secure its own interests, the equilibrium of the galaxy as a whole had been toppled.

"Public support for a new democratic government?" Obi-Wan sits, one leg folded under him in a pose of relaxation. Whereas combat sends a charged eruption through Anakin's blood, the understated thrill of highbrow bargaining fires Obi-Wan's. "I've been told a statement of rebellion was signed in Corellia not long ago. I would certainly feel more comfortable reading an official recording of your intentions before discussing our potential involvement."

Mothma's fingertips trail atop a datapad, her mirror hand resting on a short stack of flimsis. "Some things never change, Master Jedi," she comments dryly, passing a neatly-bound set of documents toward him. "Your mistrust of politicians has remained intact." Her index finger taps in the direction of the fair-haired Jedi and his bride, their frames leaning almost imperceptibly into the other even though they're seated a suitable distance apart. "However, Knight Skywalker's position seems to be somewhat more favorable."

Wisely, the Chosen One shows minimal reaction, although his hand tightens on Padme's knee. "We weren't brought to a sumptuous feast merely to sample the local cuisine," he challenges mildly. "Unlike Obi-Wan, I am not known for my patience. What does the alliance seek from us?"

"Further legitimacy, as a start." Mothma's answer is straightforward as Obi-Wan thumbs through the documents while Mothma states her case. "The Empire was born on a series of lies, the foremost a fallacy of a 'Jedi rebellion' to assassinate the former chancellor."

How authentic is a lie when based on the truth? Anakin wonders, recalling the violet glow of Mace Windu's lightsaber against Sidious' alabaster skin the day the Hero With No Fear's soul had splintered in two.

Mothma does not notice his pang of discomfort. "Most throughout the galaxy do not know how they feel about the Jedi. Are they mythic warriors who grew too power-hungry, as Empire propaganda insists, or freedom fighters unjustly massacred in what is being called the Great Jedi Purge?"

Anakin feels it, the collective gaze of Mothma, Bel Iblis and the beady glare of Organa, particularly, on him, their judgments seeping heatedly into his skin. He may not be the present monster they hunt, but his name will be forever synonymous with an atrocity that nearly eradicated his own kind.

_Focus on the present,_ Obi-Wan reminds. _Once the Empire falls, there will be a lifetime for reparation._

Anakin's sigh fades through the Force._ A lifetime may not be enough. _

"… strategic brilliance on the battlefield is well-noted, Obi-Wan," Mothma is saying, voice complimentary. "I'm afraid, however, that we face a danger that eclipses any artillery seen during the Clone Wars. The Empire has conceived a weapon so powerful that, once completed, it will coerce ultimate obedience throughout the galaxy."

The rebellion leader activates a datapad while indicating a specific page in the flimsi packets now sitting in front of Obi-Wan, Anakin and Padme. A spherical image flickers once above the table, then holds, gray, foreboding and a bit… mechanical in appearance. If she had to speculate, Padme would guess it is a large moon with a rather unusual crater near its northern pole.

"Death Star," Anakin whispers, absorbing paragraphs of astounding data as his eyes remain fixed on the eerie holo. "Nearly two-hundred kilometers. Hypermatter reactor. Hyperdrive field generators." His azure eyes widen on the next descriptor, horrified, as they seek Obi-Wan's. "Directed energy superlaser capable of incinerating an entire planet with one concentrated blast. Force, it is a moving weapon of mass destruction!"

Obi-Wan's complexion has suddenly lost all bronzed warmth from the Tatooine suns. "Created to subjugate the galaxy, one planet at a time. Gods, this is… diabolical."

"You understand our urgency to halt construction of this space fortress before it becomes operational," Bel Iblis states soberly. "Our informants in Imperial City predict the Death Star will go live within one standard month, at most. It is already being tested on deserted moons and asteroids in the Outer Rim." His right hand retracts into a fist. "If it proves successful, our sources tell us the Empire has procured supplies for two more."

Obi-Wan's head falls in an uncharacteristic display of dread. One standard month. Millions of innocent lives at risk. Even in the worst of circumstances during the Clone Wars, he'd had the fortitude to pull a plan C from the seat of his trousers, when necessary. This… well, there must be a plan C for this, and yet it remains a blank slate in the master's mind.

Despite their altruistic intentions, each person flashes wistfully to a planet held most dear: Coruscant. Corellia. Alderaan. Naboo. Strangely enough, Anakin's adopted homeplanet is the second that comes to mind. Tatooine – turbulent site of his birth and guardian of his mother's remains – is his conscience's home.

"You must have a plan to destroy this… weapon." The Jedi master's caff is forgotten as he pores over the flimsis with renewed vigor. "I cannot fathom how far-reaching the Emperor's stranglehold will be if…"

Obi-Wan cannot continue.

For the first time since he greeted the crew from Tatooine in the flight hangar, Organa speaks without presumption or rancor, ceding to the seriousness of the situation. "Our strategists are finalizing an offensive once we confirm the Death Star's location. Although our military leaders are top-notch, a Jedi possesses certain intuitions and skills that are unknown to traditionally-trained officers." He pauses, seeming to study his ornately coiled rings as if searching for the tiniest flaw. "You are the finest tactician in the galaxy, Obi-Wan. And we cannot fail. The alliance needs you."

Of course. The words are nearly out of Obi-Wan's mouth before a gentle nudge beckons in the Force. _Wait._

The master's hands halt in the mid-point of the flimsis, his stare moving from the ominous holo to Anakin, then Padme, and resting finally upon Solo, the boy's ten-year-old head propped not much taller than the tabletop.

"And the rest of my team, Senator? What are your plans for them?"

Organa addresses the senator from Naboo, eyes purposefully avoiding the man who sits at her side. "As a founder of the rebellion, Padme, we would welcome your active return. Many planets have yet to join our movement. Your skills at diplomacy and negotiation will be valuable assets."

Padme does not speak, drawing out the silence, ironically, as one of those statesmanship strategies Organa has just lauded.

_Don't mind me._ Anakin's signature drips with sarcasm. _I'll just guard the nearest broom closet to ensure no Sith lords saunter inside._

As if sensing his irritation, Mothma rises from the head position at the table, striding across the room with hands clasped sedately behind her back. Bearing a pose of utmost serenity in the midst of galactic unrest, she reminds Obi-Wan distinctly of a Jedi.

"Sidious has forged a dubious network of supporters throughout the galaxy," Mothma informs, pace leisurely, as if strolling the airy meadows of Alderaan without a concern. "Unfortunately, many believe his tale of a Jedi rebellion; others have been coerced through brutality and old-fashioned greasing of palms."

Mothma halts near Anakin's back, her voice authoritative, yet silky, as if practicing a negotiation tactic of her own. "Sith or no, the emperor is a dangerous man. As much as it may contradict our ideals of a humane, democratic society, our council has decided that the formation of a sovereign government is simply not possible while Sidious remains to influence those who may oppose us."

Her hand descends to Anakin's shoulder, a catalyst for the shiver of apprehension that cascades down his spine. The words she utters next, unfortunately, do not surprise, and yet he finds them freshly disheartening. "Many elite teams have attempted to infiltrate Sidious' inner circle; all have failed. You, Knight Skywalker, nearly defeated a despot with only a droid, a boy and your own ingenuity. Do you understand what the New Republic would ask of you?"

Padme's gasp dissipates in the thickness of the air. The tension of Anakin's shoulders pulses under Mothma's fingertips, his reticence nearly repelling her touch.

"You would have me kill as a soldier of the alliance, rather than the Empire," Anakin grits, expression nearly as taut as his sinewy body. "An assassin for the right cause, of course."

Behind him, Mothma does not flinch, nor does Anakin swivel to face her. "If that is your perspective. Your mission would be to penetrate Imperial Palace and neutralize the emperor. I'm rather surprised at your reluctance, considering the nearly successful attempt a few short months ago."

"That was different." But was it? Anakin had launched the offensive Obi-Wan rightly dubbed "reckless and suicidal" following his terrifying vision of slain Jedi, and black masks, and his azure lightsaber slashing viciously through his children.

It had been a rash, compulsive act driven by desperation. To restore his honor. To reclaim his identity.

To be _free_.

"You ask much of me," the Chosen One rasps, a gravelly tone to his words. "You ask for certainty that I have renounced the Dark Side for my Jedi roots. In the same breath, you ask that I act against one of the Order's most basic tenants." Anakin's lower lip quivers as he casts a sideways glance at Obi-Wan, absorbs a wave of equanimity that washes into his signature with the gentility of a Nabooian stream. "Jedi do not kill in cold blood. Too many times, I have felt like little more than a hired killer on behalf of the Republic I served."

Anakin's chin lifts a fraction, the prideful gesture of a slave-born boy whose genesis has shadowed his every step. "I will do everything in my power to assist the alliance, Senator, but I cannot stray down that path again."

With this, perhaps he can finally make Master Qui-Gon proud.

"I will offer Sidious the opportunity to surrender," Anakin continues, conviction ringing in his voice. "He will stand trial for his crimes, even if I must be tried beside him for mine."

Padme's panic resounds nearly as blatantly through the Force as Solo's wheeze aloud. Her mouth opens to present an argument that would be orated superbly and with her trademark passion, but she yields to a wife's sense that this line in the Alderaanian sand is one her husband must draw alone.

"Sidious will not be captured alive, Anakin," Olin remarks with hallmark Jedi coolness. "It is the nature of Jedi versus Sith. You _will_ have to kill him."

"The Jedi way is to offer an opportunity to surrender," Anakin replies, tone leveling with resolution. "I _am_ a Jedi. I will follow the Code until the situation warrants otherwise. Then, I will do what I must."

"_We_ will do what we must," Obi-Wan corrects, his own decision made in an unerring instant as he briskly addresses Organa. "The last time we tried to arrest Sidious, four Jedi were killed. I must decline your invitation to join the Death Star operation, as I will be far more useful in Coruscant."

To Anakin, he says simply, _I will not leave you again._

Bel Iblis' and Organa's sputters are immediate; Mothma concurs, her insistence joining the others in a flurry of protest until Olin's normally understated voice carries over the din.

"It will be my honor to serve the Death Star operation in Obi-Wan's stead. Our training is similar, although I will seek the master's guidance before reporting to the strike team."

A Jedi for a Jedi; the proposal leaves the dissenters suddenly ham-strung. Even if they oppose trading Obi-Wan's leadership for Olin's, there is little valid argument to bolster it.

Padme chimes in quickly, another tactic of negotiation employed at an opportune time. "I accept your offer to join the diplomatic contingent. Our allies will need to be informed with stealth and tact once our missions are underway."

Give them what they seek in one facet, and refusal of another seems less disappointing.

With the sting of dissatisfaction that hangs over the room, Mothma must make a decision. On flimsi, the three from Tatooine's proposal seems perfectly logical, even if it is not what was intended. Besides, Mothma is shrewd enough to deduce that Skywalker's chance of success improves handsomely with Kenobi watching his back.

And yet, uncertainty gnaws.

She is quite relieved that her view of Anakin Skywalker is limited to the erect grace of his shoulders, since she'd be loathe to gauge his facial reaction to her next words. "Master Kenobi, at the risk of igniting stale discussion, I feel the paramount importance of our cause demands I ask a final time: What convinces you that Anakin Skywalker will remain on the side of the light?"

The shoulders twitch, but do not falter; nor does silence consume the air for longer than a few seconds before the second-highest ranking Jedi of its proud Order speaks with unequivocal confidence.

"I stand by the same belief I had when my master brought Anakin to be trained as a Jedi many years ago." Obi-Wan's eyes close as he and Anakin share the memory of their meeting in a dusky Nabooian freighter over Tatooine. A small, gifted boy and a valorous Jedi on the cusp of greatness, minutes removed from the first of a lifetime of narrow escapes.

"Qui-Gon Jinn was the greatest Jedi I have known. He believed in Anakin."

There is not one ion of falsity in Obi-Wan's statement; he recites it nearly syllable by syllable to ensure his meaning is understood without a patch of gray.

"I believe in the wisdom of Qui-Gon. Still."

Mothma needs nothing more; her outstretched palms indicate her openness to accept Obi-Wan's judgment as fact regarding Anakin Skywalker's trustworthiness.

The time for discussion, she resolves, has passed. The time to act now begins.

"Very well." Turning in a circular motion so she addresses all in the room, the slight senator from Chandrila blesses the most significant strike of the rebellion from a dimly-lit conference room hidden in the mountains of Alderaan.

"If I may borrow a phrase that seems fitting for this moment in our history: May the Force be you, my colleagues. May the Force be with us all."

_Finis. Until next time, of course. _

_I think maybe I've outdone the "he blew himself up" phrase that so amuses me with this little diddy: "Fortunately, most at the table are immersed in various stages of mopping up Organa's crotch…" But it could be that I'm easily amused nowadays. :)_

_Reviewers, you continue to be ridiculously awesome as far as leaving kick-a** comments that fire my creativity. I'm talking to you, FireShifter, Skywalker's Phantom, PhantomFan13, Jedi Master Misty Sman-Esay, QueenNaberrie, Mireilles3, Rogue Hellsing, Jedi Angel001, Raiukage, Robert Escher, QueenYoda, TeresaLynne, Twazzi, dragonmaster63, Betterways, Guest, Abby and Liv Snigglebottom, Eldar-Melda, Haley Renee, Awkward Pen, R. Peter and AnakinlovesPadme (I totally agree). Thank you for giving me many reasons to continue, even when my brain cells seem tapped out._


	25. Chapter 25

_Special note to a couple of authors whose work I've been following and thoroughly enjoying the past few months: QueenYoda, SphinxScribe and QueenNaberrie. You all posted kick-a** updates in the same week, and it had me sweating it out to up my game and keep up with the brilliance. Bravo, friends. _

_Special note #2 to all who continue to read, review, favorite and follow: I simply couldn't (or wouldn't) do it without your support. Thank you, in particular, to: Raiukage, TeresaLynne, Eldar-Melda, Mireilles3, Jedi Master Misty Sman-Esay, WildHorseFantasy, Haley Renee, QueenYoda, dragonmaster 63 (thanks for looking at my other story, too), Skywalker's Phantom, QueenNaberrie, mouse, Guest, Robert Escher, Abby and Liv Snigglebottom and PhantomFan13. _

_Almost wrapping things up in Alderaan… And Han Solo is just…_

Chapter 25

"Uh… hello? Still here, and still without a mission, your honorable worshipfolk."

Solo's fingers, skinny as the rest of him but deceivingly deft on the controls of a ship, tap impatiently, rapid-fire clicks on the tabletop. Pre-teenagers are not known for their patience, and his fled about the same time his plate containing two last bites of muja-berry cobbler was whisked away.

Bel Iblis does not intend for his tone to be dismissive, but the aftermath of charged discussion has exhausted his usual tact. "The alliance is not a slaver, son. We do not put ten-year-olds in the peril of battle."

Oh, that glint in the boy's eye, Obi-Wan thinks. It's a different hue from what he's used to, but it promises the same obstinacy as that particular shine in Anakin's, come hells or high water.

Usually hells.

"Really?" Solo's head jerks toward the Chosen One, who cocks an eyebrow as if in preparation to scold.

Another habit inherited from Obi-Wan, since Anakin has seen that preemptory lift of his master's forehead more times than there are stars in the galaxy. Practically.

"I heard he saved a planet when he was _nine_," Solo protests, in full persuasive mode now. "Jedi go into battle not much older than me." An abrupt swash of crimson envelopes his neck, crawling upward as he immediately corrects himself. "Used to, I mean, before… Oh, _kriff _it_,_ I can fight. Just put me somewhere with a blaster and I'll figure it out."

How many times does he have to repeat the point about blasters? If they'd just give him a weapon and identify a target – Organa's malla petal-stained crotch, perhaps? – he'd be happy to back up his bluster.

While the rest of alliance leaders disperse with a chorus of goodnights, Anakin reads the subtext behind the disgruntled twitch of the boy's smart mouth: _What will become of me if I don't stay with you?_

Fortunately, Obi-Wan slides into the seat next to the Corellian boy, his knack for delicate negotiations emerging once again. "Glad you asked, young one. The mission I have in mind for you could be the most difficult of all."

It's not really a bunch of bantha fodder, Obi Wan convinces himself. Remaining in Alderaan to look after Padme and the Skywalker twins could become rather hazardous, considering the senator's penchant for attracting assassins and the toddlers' fondness for Force stunts. Did Anakin not say they actually levitated a few weeks ago?

Force, but he's getting too old for Skywalker shenanigans.

"You're not_ that _old," Anakin refutes with that ornery grin of his.

_And you're not helping,_ Obi-Wan shoots back, then suggests slyly to the boy, "Shall we ask for another plate of that delicious-smelling cobbler so I can fill you in properly?"

Solo acquiesces, furtive smirk of his own soon disappearing into three gulps of dessert and a shrewd realization.

_Smooth, Jedi. Real smooth. _

But before the Corellian can empty his mouth long enough to ask what the Jedi master is really playing at, movement across the room reveals that the way-too-polished host from Alderaan has plopped his smarmy attitude right next to Padme.

Solo nudges Obi-Wan, disengaging the Jedi's beard from the gooey baked confection, and thrusts his fork toward Organa's reddening mug that's practically begging for introduction to Anakin's fist. The Alderaanian's jaw is so near Padme's that any wayward movement of his lips could result in a collision with Ani's pretty wife's, and Solo knows that would not go over well _at all_.

Matter of fact, the powers-that-be should be in no hurry whatsoever to return the Jedi's confiscated lightsaber, he thinks, shoveling another heap of cobbler into his mouth.

"Mmph." Solo actually means it as a mild exclamation, such as "Hey!" or even "Um," but sticky-sweet muja syrup has rendered his mouth temporarily immobile. "You've got eyes on this deal with Ani and the stoopa man whose ass he's about to kick, right?"

Apparently, Obi-Wan doesn't, transfixed by doughy muja goodness. Once apprised, however, the master springs as demurely as a Jedi in a hurry can, since Padme's normally placid voice now carries with shrill disgust " – mind your own _bloody_ business, Bail! – " and Anakin's meditative calm is slipping by the standard second.

Despite the seething Jedi at his elbow and another heading toward the fray, Organa has no intention of minding anything. The former confidant of Senator Amidala rounds on both Skywalkers – colossal mistake, Solo thinks – and spits acidly, "She would have been better off with Breha and I, and you well know it! There would have been no hiding from half the galaxy, no threats to her safety! If either of you would have considered Leia's needs rather than – "

Obi-Wan doesn't have to see the flash of Anakin's eyes; the backdraft of his outrage swirls dangerously within the Force, a blistering explosion that builds, hovers, awaits detonation.

"Leia," Anakin bites, and Obi-Wan suspects icicles could hang from the hostile nip of his tone, "is far better off with her _parents_ and her _brother_." The Jedi's voice lowers to a faint, ominous husk that, as those who have experienced the calculated fury of General Skywalker on the battlefield can attest, should have Organa very, _very_ concerned. "Although it would be dishonorable to act against your… _preoccupation_ with our daughter, it is widely known that I have difficulty following the Jedi Code, especially when those close to me are involved. Remember that."

As if in a coda to the threat just verbalized, Anakin finds himself staring at the Adam's apple centered in the column of Organa's throat. How easy it would be, suggests an innate voice that is distant and yet all-too-near, to constrict_ that_ tendon against _that_ muscle in an optimal gesture of… displeasure.

Instincts of the beast roar again, slithering for acknowledgment, invigoration, release. Anakin doesn't have to meet Obi-Wan's gaze to feel his assurance surround him like the warmest of cloaks. _You are not that man, Anakin. _

_Some days, he would come in handy_, his former padawan snarks. But the dark opportunity passes, unclaimed.

Padme's rage is less lethal, and yet Obi-Wan feels her restraint against an elemental impulse to claw Organa's freshly-shaved chin. "I am bound by no such code," she retorts, far too bluntly for a diplomat, even as her smile exudes the pleasantry of a sun-drenched Nabooian meadow. "_Our_ daughter is an exceptionally happy and healthy little girl, and you are a selfish boor to covet a child!

"My husband is quite influential with his lightsaber, Bail. But, in the event you need more convincing, keep in mind that I have been told I am quite proficient with a blaster, as well."

Anakin finds his wife irresistible when she juts her slim jaw just so, hardheaded and feisty and _desirable_ to the last.

Without a sound, Solo appears at Padme's side – or was he there all along, Luke and Leia's self-appointed protector? The boy puffs out his scrawny chest, stretches as tall as his borrowed boots allow, juvenile indignation rolling from him. "Well, I don't need to be told – I _am_ good with a blaster."

_Fantastic_, Obi-Wan bemoans. Now I have to keep _three_ of them from tearing Organa apart, limb by immaculately-dressed limb. And their newly-forged detente with the alliance may evaporate as quickly as a lone drop of moisture in the Dune Sea.

Solo's ten-year-old glower might be adorable, if not for the sternness behind it as his focus narrows to the debonair senator. "You got nothin' to boss me about, so I don't have to be nice. You're a creep show. I don't like you. Go kriff yourself in your fancy robes, _Bail, _and don't even think about looking at the Skycrawlers again. Got me?"

Organa's mouth rolls into a sneer aimed at Anakin. "Hiding behind the breeches of foul-mouthed little boys now, Chosen One?" The senator's eyes bulge with rage, and Padme realizes that his ire must have percolated for some time to be as fevered as this. "You're fortunate, young one. He hasn't _killed _you. Yet."

_He will steal your children, cavort with your wife, defile your name. Your wrath must be merciless, so others will not follow. The house of Vader must remain intact…_

Anakin's right hand slides to his belt, metal on metal, as the other fists at his temple, pressing desperately as if to siphon the devious cackle from his mind. He forces himself to rock from the battle-ready balls of his feet to his heels, abruptly spinning from Organa even as Obi-Wan, alarmed at that wretched _voice, _insinuates himself between the two.

"You are out of line, senator," Obi-Wan informs sharply, a palm on Anakin's back. "Just as you were the day the twins were born, trying to twist the situation to your benefit."

"You insult your own, Obi-Wan!" Organa shouts, infuriated. "If you recall, it was Master Yoda who recommended separation, not I!"

"A recommendation you readily supported," Padme snaps, her eyes on Anakin as he concentrates on each deep respiration, calming himself one breath at a time. "If Obi-Wan hadn't stepped in…"

Obi-Wan _does_ recall. Master Yoda's plan had seemed dispassionately wise as he'd proposed it: Luke to Tatooine, Leia to Alderaan to preserve a twinkle of hope that would someday, _someday,_ kindle to flame…

He'd been too detached in his own grief to follow the preparations: Organa on the comm link to his wife, Master Yoda commandeering a clandestine ship, both badgering a bone-tired, crestfallen Padme.

Then, Obi-Wan had stared through the opaque glass at Anakin's wife, her signature mournful as she'd kissed Luke's tiny fingers and stroked Leia's head sprinkled with dark hair.

But the new mother had managed a smile, a speck of joy in the darkness. And that had been all the spark Obi-Wan needed.

"Master Yoda was wrong," Obi-Wan asserts, and it feels not only good, but _righteous_, to openly declare it. "The Order was wrong regarding a great many things that are just becoming clear. And, make no mistake, _Senator Organa_ – " his vernacular becomes formally clipped, " – we may be colleagues, but we are not friends. Advancing the ideals of the alliance is your concern; Leia Skywalker is not."

Sullen but outnumbered, Organa slinks away.

"You sure he's on our side?" Solo gripes, clearing muja juice from the corners of his mouth with a boisterous swipe. "With that one hangin' around, it's a good thing I'm stayin' here to look after things while you two go huntin' Sith."

Obi-Wan quietly nudges the boy's boot with his own in gratitude. _Good show, young one._

Anakin nods in confirmation, still dazed from the stealth temptation of the dark. His hand finds Padme's as he exchanges a solemn look with Obi-Wan. _It's getting stronger._ _I can't keep –_

The Jedi master exudes compassion through their Force bond. _No, you can't._

"Ani?" Wifely intuition tells Padme that something distinctly Jedi ripples beneath the surface of conversation. More troubling, Anakin wears that haunted look again. "The twins probably have Threepio in a tizzy," she states carefully. "Shall we see if they need a lullaby?"

More likely, their father needs the connection that crooked little tune brings, she thinks, as the gloomy mist clears from his brain.

"Are you sure about going to Coruscant?" Anakin asks Obi-Wan as the Skywalkers turn to depart. "I'd rather wrestle a sarlacc than admit this, but Organa is right; you are the finest tactician in the galaxy. They could use your wits against this Death Star."

"What, and leave you to your own devices?" Obi-Wan rejoins, sparing a wink in Solo's direction. "We all know what happens – you blow yourself up, latch onto stray Corellians with filthy mouths and create general chaos that I have to remedy later. No offense, Anakin, but you really can't be left alone."

They could argue this point well into the night, would undoubtedly enjoy the rousing tales that would illustrate both of their contentions. Although neither has bothered to mention the running tally of "who saved whose arse" since their reunion, there are at least a dozen ready-made stories of gundark nests and that business on Cato Neimoidia that buttress Skywalker's frequent boast that he can function just fine without Kenobi, thank the Force very much.

Ah, to the hells of Corellia with "just fine," Anakin thinks.

"Right as always, Master," he concedes with too much submission for Obi-Wan's comfort. The Jedi master recognizes that devilish look, has seen it endless times in Anakin and on far too many occasions already in the faces of his children. Things tend to detonate, and ricochet, and crash in spectacular, fiery heaps after Anakin flashes that particular look.

How Obi-Wan has missed the rollicking adventure of it.

When Anakin rubs his brow and his large stature bows a bit, Obi-Wan is reminded that his healing process – from wounds that mar his skin and others that embed in his soul – continues with each sunrise.

"Have I thanked you for looking after my family, Master? Starting with the moment you stood against Master Yoda to keep the twins with their mother?"

"Not necessary, Anakin. You would do the same." Beat. Smirk. Rascal's smile. "If I had broken the Code by marrying a former queen and had two forbidden children with her, of course."

Before, Anakin would have shrugged an informal thanks and been on his way, squirming with discomfort. Unwilling to crack open the depths of a brotherhood defined in every tangible manner except with descriptors.

Now, Anakin clasps a hand on his master's shoulder, levels those eyes that have always expressed what his mouth could not with Obi-Wan's and waits until the master, every cell as uneasy as his former padawn, returns the contact.

"I said thank you, Master. Now be a good friend and accept it."

Obi-Wan is, and he does. Then observes, amused and a bit… envious as the Skywalkers stroll away, Anakin shortening his strides to fall naturally with Padme's as her arm catches his, wayward curls nuzzling into his shoulder.

Solo eyes the emptied dessert plates, then the scuffed toes of his boots. "If I can't join the Skywalker-Kenobi reunion tour, send my best to Ana-Clone and Darth Nasty, will ya? I know you two don't like blasters, so make sure those flashy swords of yours do the job."

The boy flashes a cocky grin that takes Obi-Wan back to a bold scamp from Tatooine, face scrubbed with dirt as it imagined the stars.

"I'd hate to have to come over there and clean up your mess later."

Resembles that boy in more than just the grin.

x x x

It takes the master and padawan a bit of time to ease back into combat readiness, Skywalker and Kenobi-style. So seamless before, from the planning, to prepping the troops, even to improvisation in the field – Anakin _thrives_ on pulling something workable out of his arse as blaster fire whizzes past it – they are now too polite, too regimented, too… _unknown_ to each other.

It will pass, Obi-Wan thinks, perusing another scenario for infiltrating Imperial Palace without detection. His brow doesn't crease with worry over that; he and Anakin have accomplished more with much steeper odds.

No, the upcoming confrontation with Sidious and his clone pet doesn't prop Obi-Wan's eyes open in his small cot. It is duty, as always, that fires his thoughts even as they should drift into the rejuvenation of sleep. Duty to all that's been lost: to Qui-Gon, the Order that nurtured him as far back as his memories travel. Duty to a glaringly imperfect Republic, to the restoration of democracy.

Duty to the person he loves more than Qui-Gon. The brother whose loss nearly pushed Obi-Wan to the Dark Side after him on that planet of frenzy and fire.

He will _not _turn, Obi-Wan assures himself, clinging to the Anakin who walks with him now, dressed in black but light of mind. Anakin, levitating one of Luke's toy balls and making it dance as the boy watches, fascinated. Whispering into Luke's ear as the tow-headed boy reaches with chubby fingers, then retracts them as the ball twitches in the opposite direction. Then the father's large hands cup the son's smaller ones to coax the ball into twirling again.

But that voice, that presence, that depraved _bond_ pulses like a sinewy band with no shatterpoint, stretching so thin it should rupture, and yet unbreakable thus far.

Skywalker and Kenobi, unbreakable.

Vader and Sidious, unbreakable.

Anakin will _not _turn. The ball bounds up and down, whistles around Luke's little head, dives toward the ground before there is a whoop, and a squeal. Then Anakin is gushing, "That was you, Luke!" before the boy disappears into the folds of the Jedi's muddy cloak.

Anakin will stay in the light. He has too much to lose.

Obi-Wan listens to them, Anakin's hearty laughter, a sound emitted far too rarely during his twenty-five years. Luke's high-pitched giggles of adoration for a father, found.

The Jedi master bows his head.

And so do I.

X x x

_Twilight before the mission to Coruscant  
__Hidden base, Alderaan_

Solo thinks they could pull it off without too much trouble.

They could "re-borrow" the _Falcon_, "procure" a couple of blasters and charge outta this place, because these Rebel folks and their blah-blah-blah judgments are starting to irritate him even more than those blank stares of Kenobi's.

It's further irritating that he hasn't actually _seen_ one of those blank stares in some time. With the two Jedi off planning the offensive of the standard century, there's been little time for dejarik, or tweaking the _Falcon_'s hyperdrive, or even poking fun at Threepio's eccentricities that are hardly droid-like.

If I had a coupla credits every time that goldenrod's had me counting to twenty just to squelch the urge to unplug his brassy, waddling butt…

The squat droid with all the lights is busily chirping as Solo drags his boots lazily up the gangplank. Head buried in a control panel of the _Falcon_ as he works a screwdriver with precision, Anakin is only half-listening as Obi-Wan talks through another invasion scenario.

"… possibility of hacking into the central operating system of the stormtroopers? If we can plant a contingency order to stand down, ninety percent of troops surrounding Imperial Palace could be disabled at one time."

Threepio's mechanical back straightens as Artoo emits a string of beeps. The prissy protocol droid would, clearly, rather discuss any subject to which his programming has rendered him an expert to avoid the distasteful thought of unplugging.

"Artoo said he could program a virus in the clones' central processing system to disable them for up to fifteen standard minutes," Threepio translates. "However, access to the system is likely protected with a complex series of firewalls and intricate passwords."

Obi-Wan fills the leather pouches of his utility belt with essentials: food capsules, a grappling spike launcher and a holomap are tucked away as he answers, "Ferus Olin is among the best slicers in the galaxy. He'll be a comm away if our gallant Artoo cannot break the codes."

Anakin's curls emerge from a labyrinth of multi-colored wires. "We'll need a plan of attack for the Royal Guard. I saw at least a dozen in the chambers leading to the throne room, and four trailing Sidious at all times."

Obi-Wan flicks several switches on a holopad, repeating until he's satisfied they're functioning to his preference. "Well, they're not clones, so we can't just shut them off. And their training makes them impervious to mind tricks." The hilt of his lightsaber has seen better days, but it molds into his hand before Obi-Wan clips it to his belt, suggesting with a sigh, "It'll be aggressive negotiations, then."

Anakin nods somewhat grimly. "More than likely."

"Begging your pardon, Master Ani," Threepio interrupts helpfully, "but Artoo calculates the odds of successfully infiltrating Imperial Palace without mortal injury at approximately five-thousand, three-hundred twenty-two to one."

"Whoa… what?" Solo's leisurely pace has suddenly livened as he plops into a chair next to Obi-Wan, rattling the Jedi's carefully arranged tool belt. "You heard that, right?"

"Be mindful, young one, that Anakin has already done it."

Well, of _course_, Solo thinks with a scowl, remembering smoky corridors, insane astromechs and being scared out of his wits. "I was there, remember? And there goes your 'one!' I'm startin' to think this isn't your best idea, no offense."

The Jedi master gives that maddening look of his, sifting through an assortment of utility knives before finding one that pleases him. "Artoo, what were the odds of escaping execution on Geonosis?"

Whistle. Beep. Beep.

"Six-thousand forty-seven to one," Anakin deciphers before Threepio.

"That _was_ rather close," Obi-Wan remarks, nonchalantly. "How about eluding Dooku, a gundark _and_ poison gas on Vanqor?"

Artoo's response is an immediate string of excitable sounds that Threepio translates as "Three-thousand, nine-hundred seventy-two to one, and he said it isn't his fault if your opposition doesn't uphold its end of the calculation."

Obi-Wan harrumphs and Anakin chuckles, inclining his head once again in the _Falcon_'s thorny wiring system.

"I'm guessing the point is, never tell you the odds?" Solo decodes, fiddling with a handful of food capsules that are yet to go into Obi-Wan's utility belt.

"Something like that," the master agrees.

"Ani?" The Jedi's head turns immediately, of course, to a feminine voice as Padme enters the _Falcon_. "We have a bit of a situation. It's Luke." The former queen's hands wring together. "And Leia. I think the skills of both Jedi and father are needed."

Anakin nearly hits his head pulling it out of the panel. "Are they all right?"

"Yes, of course. It's just… well, there was a ball… flying through the air. Luke, I think. From what I could gather from a one-year-old, Leia wanted to make it fly, too, but couldn't. She's having a bit of a tantrum. Ferus Olin offered to help, but… well, he's rather flustered by Leia's temperament."

Solo winces. Prettygirl Skywalker has exhibited a bantha's worth of testiness for one so young. He pities the guy who snags her heart someday. Nothin.' But. Trouble.

Obi-Wan outwardly guffaws, eyes soft with apology toward Padme, but he has no mercy for Anakin's plight. The young Jedi father sighs, but pleasantly, as the screwdriver moves faster in his hand.

"Be there in a minute," he promises his wife with a lingering look that induces a flush of pink on her cheeks.

"Be sure it's only a minute," she demurs before hurrying back to her cranky toddler.

"Might I offer my services, as well, Lady Padme?" Threepio inquires, waddling after his mistress as Artoo follows. "I am a protocol droid, after all."

Solo sidles to the control panel, handing Anakin a smaller tool before the Jedi even asks, the boy's face abnormally pensive. There is a chippy clink of metal turning metal and the hiss of Anakin's breath as he sorts out the wiring problem; it's a few minutes before Solo deigns to speak.

"You know what you're walking into, right?" An image of Anakin, broken beyond comprehension even to the view of a scrappy boy accustomed to the worst, flashes behind Solo's brown eyes. "I mean, I _know_ you know, but maybe we need to change the rules here. Who needs this rebellion thing, anyway? The _Falcon_'s gonna hum like a dream when you're done with it. I've been thinkin' we can just grab Padme and the crawlers and head for Corellia, or Anison, or any planet where there's not a bunch of Imps tryin' to kill you."

Are those pinpricks of tears in the boy's eyes? Solo's words get caught in his throat as he thrusts another tool into Anakin's grip and blurts, "You don't have to do this, you know. Not for them."

The Jedi's ministrations cease, fingers carefully untangling from a maze of wires as he faces the boy who, Anakin senses more keenly than ever, wants to trust him.

"Maybe you're right," Anakin concedes. "Maybe I don't owe the alliance anything, but I do owe the galaxy a debt for throwing in my lot with a dictator. Even if neither of those things were in play, Han, I'd still have do this for my family." He stretches his hands onto Solo's shoulders, softness against the steel of the screwdriver he's still holding. "I need to be free of the darkness. If I am not free, my children will never be free, either. Now that you've heard why I made the decisions that put us here, does it help you understand?"

Solo wants to shrug off those hands, dismiss the knots of dread he's felt quarreling in his stomach since the alliance lackeys smooth-talked Anakin into doing their dirty work. He wants to not _care_ so much about this Jedi-turned-Sith-turned-blasted-honorable-kriffin' -Jedi who could have – _should have_ – dropped a few credits on that bar in the bowels of Corellia and minded his own business.

Why _didn't_ he do that, like everyone else in Solo's life had, minus the pirates and the guardians who claimed to protect his best interests with callous threats and vicious backhands?

Solo swallows. Hard. "I've always gotten by on my own, but now that I have people who aren't so bad, like her – " his scrawny shoulder jerks toward the gangplank where Padme has just departed " – and maybe him, but he's _really_ gotta grow a sense of humor – " his chin indicates Obi-Wan, whose attempt at cluelessness overtly fails " – and you, I might be freaked about losing you all, too."

The boy's face falls to his boots – a scruffy, beat-up pair Anakin liberated from a bloke in Corellia who had more than enough. Then, his gaze rises until brown stares intently, gratefully into blue, with Solo's shoulders quivering under Anakin's fingertips. "I guess it isn't so much that you were an evil piece of poodoo. You were just a scared, stoopa scoundrel like me."

Anakin feels as if he's been granted the grudging edge of forgiveness from the boy. It's tacit and fragile, but it's the first step toward reconciliation, which, the Jedi finds, has become surprisingly important to him.

"I was scared, of many things. And I'm not ashamed to tell you I'm scared now." Anakin's peripheral vision yields a raised eyebrow from his master. "But my destiny is to face the Sith and restore balance within the Force; no matter where we ran, that would remain."

There is no smart-arsed remark that refutes Anakin's reasoning; pointless to try, Solo thinks, lowering his head to conceal his tears as the Jedi releases his shoulders.

"Didn't you tell Padme you'd be along in a minute?" Obi-Wan reminds, pointedly.

Anakin snaps to, quickly sealing the control panel and lobbing tools into a container. "Aw, kriff. Guess I shouldn't have been so enthusiastic about the ball trick. We should start with some simple meditation techniques for the twins, adapt them to their age – "

" – When we return," Obi-Wan finishes resolutely. "Now go. I sense you're already in trouble."

"Yeah, me too." Anakin is off without another word, Force-jumping to hasten his speed as Obi-Wan shakes his head.

The Corellian is left standing near the control panel where Anakin left him, knees a bit wobbly as he sinks into a chair.

"I will not tell you there is nothing to worry about, young one, because you are far too intelligent to believe that kind of rubbish. This mission _is_ dangerous. It will test the limits of everything we have been taught as Jedi."

The boy is incredulous now, eyes widening with fright. "Will he stay a Jedi this time?"

Obi-Wan withdraws his lightsaber from his utility belt, rubbing the scarred hilt with fondness. "He will try with every ounce of courage he possesses. And I will be there if that is not enough." The master allows himself a secretive smile. "We _are_ more than just a couple of pretty faces."

Kriffin' Jedi and their hocus-pocus-y ways. "Yeah, whatever. Just bring him back in one piece," Solo grumbles. "And yourself, too. So somebody can get those Force-freaky twins under control."

Then, he rises grumpily on more solid knees, deciding to find something better to do than decipher damnable Jedi riddles.

Kriffin' Jedi.

Kriffin' alliance.

Kriffin' _families_.

_Finis. For now. __  
_

_A couple of things about this chapter, which got freakishly long by the end. We'll be out of Alderaan soon, I promise._

_Bail Organa: I'm not trying to make him a bad guy, per se, but I needed a mechanism that would tempt Anakin toward the darkness, lest we forget that he does have a certain inclination to go there when he's cornered. Or if his family is in jeopardy. Enter Organa. Sorry about that._

_Solo: This cutie-pie will not leave my muse alone. Imagine that; Solo being a pest. He and Ani needed to mend the fences, anyway. Hope you liked. _

_Obi-Wan: Solid and irresistible, as always. Who's my second-favorite Jedi? Yep, Obi. And yet, he's certainly not dim enough to think Anakin won't be tempted when they go storm Imperial Palace._

_Q/A for mouse and Haley Renee: yes, the Death Star is way, WAY ahead of canon timeline. That's why I love AU – I can do whatever I want, so my Imps are really motivated. Luke and Leia are about 18 months old here, just squirts with lots of Force mischief. _

_Coruscant/Imperial City: Some have asked why I don't call it one or the other. The inconsistency is intentional. Our heroes tend to dismiss the name Sidious gave it, preferring to call it Coruscant. It's just a style/character thing. But thanks for pointing that out._

_Coming attractions... Ani/Padme 'shippers, the next chapter is for you. Swoon. _


	26. Chapter 26

_I don't usually pay attention to numbers, but one in particular had an impact: 300. There are 300 reviews for this story! ****applauds ridiculously awesome reviewers**** I'd give you all a Han Solo action figure, if I could. Instead, I'll just keep writing the scrappy boy with the gusto he deserves. :)_

_Many thanks to those who commented on the last chapter: **TeresaLynn, JediAngel001, Eldar-Melda, Jedi Master Misty Sman-Esay, the-writer 1988, QueenNaberrie, QueenYoda, Dark Mistress of the Sith, Mireilles3, PhantomFan13, WildHorseFantasy, Raiukage, Skywalker's Phantom, ScribeAnimal, , Haley Renee, Guest** and **Robert Escher.** You're all on my Star Wars Day greeting card list. _

_Now, onto a shameless Ani/Padme swoonfest. Cover your eyes if marital bliss squicks you out. And a little bit of the boys…_

Chapter 26

_Late evening before the mission to Coruscant  
__Hidden military base, Alderaan_

He should not say it.

It is clutching and greedy, everything a Jedi should not be.

On separate ends of the crib, his children still seek their twin, bodies inching toward the other in sleep until Leia's little head is fitted firmly in Luke's stomach.

They are flesh-and-blood salvation. They are laughing, squalling, spirited verification that his love for Padme is not a mirage. It's felt that way sometimes, shadowed in more reverie than reality, until these two.

Anakin must not say it. Except…

Being their father is everything he never thought he could be.

His voice is soft, the tiniest bit pleading. "Don't let them forget me." _For however long I'm away, fighting another Force-forsaken war, or during the endless standard years of their life days if I fail. _

To have him lost to them would be tragic, but for his presence to vanish entirely, even from memory…

His mother perished a lifetime ago, but whispers of her gentleness and sacrifice continue to shape him, still.

"Please," he murmurs into his wife's neck, fingers cupping a little too possessively. This is the Hero With No Fear unmasked, clutching and greedy and painfully afraid.

"How could_ we_ forget you?" Padme's subtle twist of his words does not go unnoticed. She turns in his arms, reaching on her tiptoes and tilting her head until her nose nearly touches his chin, lips parted oh-so-alluringly. "Obi-Wan said this time we'll be able to talk on a secure comm and you can even send holos – "

She doesn't understand.

But the curve of her lush bottom lip erodes his desire to elaborate. He simply must taste it, tuck another sensory-charged memory away to sustain when he's no longer here to barge right in and explore what intrigues him, as he's wont to do.

Legs twining in his, pads of her fingers dancing first lightly, then tracing with a more pronounced invitation across his trousers, his wife seems not to mind. And relishes his skittered breathing, the thrum of his heart that accelerates much like the engines with which he's always tinkering.

He can tinker with _her_ anytime he likes. Right this second would be splendid, except for that gnawing ache that originates near her own plodding heart, radiating gently, at first, like a seismic cadence. Each beat seems to pulse a stronger message of forewarning that builds with the crescendo of their hearts: _staywrongalonedarkLeialightatonenoLukepainloveprop hecyhusbandalonealonealone…_

She hauls his face even closer, nearly mashing their noses as she seizes the angled planes of his cheekbones. The harshness of her voice – he's heard it this way before, in the wild of passion and the bleakest claws of fright. "If I asked you to come away with me now – with _us_ – so we could have our family and nothing else, would you do it?"

_Come away with me. Leave everything else behind while we still can! _

He wants to say yes before reason descends, gather the twins' grubby toys, whisk them away and discover every star in the galaxy with Luke keeping count.

He wants this new war, barely begun, to fire its parting shot. He wants to repeat pivotal moments of his life so he can be the better man Padme deserves. He wants his mother, vibrantly alive, to tell him he is honorable enough – he has always been brave enough – to withstand this crusade. He wants fervently to be present for the birth of another child with eyes of Skywalker blue.

For the first time in his life, the Chosen One would run.

But he chooses to be free.

"Would you have us keep hiding, Angel? From Sidious and the rest of the galaxy?"

Her hand slides down his shoulder, fingers digging into the cloth of his shirt. Her fear is as potently transparent as it had been the night he'd returned from the Temple slaughter, the only time he'd kissed her with coldness.

She nibbles on the bottom lip that had just distracted him, an anxiety he's seen only in their bedchamber, where she sheds the vivid robes of Senator Amidala to exist merely as his wife. "I would have you with us, Ani. Whole, not half, or whatever scrap is left." Those golden eyes flood with tears, then flutter in an attempt to stifle them before she lowers her head. "I would have you _alive."_

Anakin cradles her chin, guiding it tenderly upward until her eyes meet his again. "Someone told me once that she was not afraid to die. Then she gave me the most glorious reason to live." With the stealth of a whisper, his hands steal into her hair, winding around loose plaits that confine it, even as his gaze wanders to Leia's heart-shaped mouth hanging open, Luke's limbs sprawled haphazardly in the crib. "I have more reasons than I deserve to stay alive, love."

Nimble fingers set about unraveling the braids woven through Padme's hair, strand by curly strand, amorous liberties granted as the touch of his skin ignites hers. It is a tedious task, and an affectionate one that stirs memories of languorous, firelit evenings at Varykino. Always too brief, too stirring, too precious.

"Aren't you the fortunate Jedi tonight," Padme teases, meticulously releasing the buttons of his tunic, one by one, then pushing his shirt aside. She simply cannot help that her breath catches each time his superbly rippled frame is revealed. "Without Sabe's expertise, my hair should be much less of a challenge."

His grin is low, as is his vision when darkened eyes sweep south of her neckline. "A shame, indeed," he remarks, tone suggesting precisely the opposite. "I always wondered if your rather complex _styling_ was, in fact, a plot masterminded by Sabe to keep your virtue intact."

"If it was, we foiled the plot quite successfully, did we not?" Padme reminds with a sensual brush of her lips to the knuckles of his flesh-hand.

It would seem the most natural of things, husband and wife undressing the other as they prepare for bed. One of many elusive normalcies both Skywalkers cherished during respites from battle.

And acutely missed, when the rudeness of war intruded.

"In those clothes, you look like the handmaiden I once thought you were," Anakin reminisces, pulling with dwindling patience at the sleeves of the dress she'd brought from Tatooine. Colorless and drab, its function is to ward off the harsh elements, rendering the protected washed-out and shapeless.

Yet, she still resembles a breathtaking angel.

As if transcribing his thoughts, she breathes, "I am no angel, Ani," and seals her proclamation with lingering kisses to his cheek, nose, temple, "just a wife who loves her husband so deeply that she would go anywhere, do anything, to keep him from harm."

"Do not say that, love." It is a gentle rebuke. "If you were Force-sensitive, those thoughts would lead you into darkness. I used the same justifications, and they led me to Sidious."

He'd like nothing more than to submerge himself in the warmth of her sweet embrace, to quiet every rancid idea swirling about and surrender to mindless pleasure. With daybreak will come separation, and abundant time for sifting unsettling thoughts.

Yet, he must know.

Expression a meld of sadness and chagrin, he captures her face in his hands, the sensations of leather and flesh contrasted on each cheek, his eyes mesmerizing with their zeal for truth.

"Would you have us run because you're afraid of what will happen when I face Sidious? That I will turn to the Dark Side again?" It suddenly occurs that his hands incarcerate her, horribly close to the slim column of her throat he'd once constricted in madness. His hold loosens at once, but his wife does not flinch, a testament to trust renewed. "Do you believe I would somehow hurt you again, Padme?"

The first droplet of her tears lands on the heel of his glove, the second on his flesh-forefinger. "I would have us run because we have given enough of ourselves to war." A sob releases before she can squelch it, and she is reminded of the endless supply after Mustafar. "Once, I could think of nothing beyond duty. But, when the two most important things in my life were lost, I found myself weeping not for duty, but for my husband."

That ache had been so cavernous that, had he not returned, it would have remained forever unhealed.

"I do not fear you, Ani," she cries, her body so flush with his that the vibration of her heartbeat rebounds on his skin. "I fear what would take you from us. I understand far too well what a person would do to save those she loves, because I would do anything – _anything _– to keep you and our children safe, and with me."

She _does_ understand.

He draws her head into his chest as she sobs, her slip of a body enfolded in his to absorb her shudders. Then, when her cheeks are dry because the shoulder of his tunic is soggy, he gives her his most enigmatic smile, the one that replenishes her hope because it somehow convinces her that he can accomplish anything.

"I told you once that I was good at fixing things," he begins, freeing the last of her braids so her hair falls, unbidden, all around him. "Part of the reason for that particular talent is that I've spent much of my life messing things up in spectacular fashion.

"I will never be able to fully atone for what I've done, but the alliance is giving me a chance to fix some of the damage I've caused." His field of vision wanders back to their twins, whose growing Force abilities make them either asset or prey to those who would covet their potential. "Sidious will come for them eventually. You know that as well as I. If we hide, we will live again in the shadows, and our children will know a darkness that has nothing to do with the Sith."

The public servant in Padme applauds her husband's fierce conviction to reverse the Empire's cache of transgressions, a brutal, heavy-handed movement that Anakin's turn had championed.

The wife in her burrows deeper in his arms and prays to her Nabooian goddesses that it will not be the last time.

She shouldn't feel this way.

It is clutching and greedy, everything a senator should not be.

She must not consider the personal cost if her husband is to fail. Except...

The way he'd laughed with such infectious glee when Leia levitated the ball a few standards millimeters off the floor, the delight with which he'd scooped their daughter into his steely arms that softened only for her, only for them…

Being his wife is everything she never thought she could be.

Padme Naberrie Amidala Skywalker makes a decision. A blubbering fool of a wife will do her husband no service as he embarks on this mission. He needs the stubborn senator in the white jumpsuit, not the delicate wife in white lace.

His shirt has already been discarded. Admiring patches of fine, golden hair dotting his chest, Padme gets to work on his breeches. "No blowing yourself up on this mission, promise? As when the twins were born, I'll be checking you for fingers, toes and other vital… _appendages _– " her palm swipes ever so lazily across one such appendage, as she yanks his face to hers for a scorching kiss that has him tearing at his own waistband when she pulls away " – when you return."

He smirks, an all-too willing conspirator. "I look forward to that inspection, love." Glides his fingertips over one of her _appendages_ with intimate intent to illustrate his cooperation. "Eagerly."

Two sets of hands fumble urgently with her dress, Anakin's efforts thwarted at every turn. Buttons _and_ a zipper? he grouses, then bemoans the discovery of a particular snap that could double as an impenetrable lock on a detention cell door.

"Kriff… Are you _sure_ Sabe isn't hiding somewhere? Laughing her arse off at either her genius or my bloody ineptitude?"

Finally, Padme stands before him, all alabaster skin that beseeches his touch. He starts with a tender, reverent caress across the crooked threads on her stomach, immortal evidence that their children rested within.

"No crashing anything, either," she insists in a velvet husk that transforms his mind to sludge, as piloting _anything _is at the bottom of his thoughts. "That means listen to Obi-Wan when he tells you whatever bucket of bolts you find yourself in won't fly."

Her explorations halt for a moment as her hand cups his cheek. "Sometimes, my love, you believe you can fly anything, even one of those Jedi boots that weighs more than my yacht."

He feels her everywhere; silken curls tantalizing his ear, neck, collarbone, fingers breathing life his cells, divine sighs a sultry aphrodisiac trailing down his neck.

"I could get one in the air, if hard-pressed," he manages, reveling at this nirvana in her arms.

"I'll show you hard-pressed, Skywalker," she purrs, and goes to whisper something else in that smart-arse vein, but her words are devoured in her husband's kiss and soon forgotten.

As their bodies sigh into each other, remembering, rediscovering, reinventing, a single thought echoes through the emotions that threaten to leave him sobbing like one of his children in mid-tantrum, even as passion thunders, crests, then wafts from a heady apex.

Home. Far from the cobblestone balcony that blessed their union.

Home. A makeshift bed on a far-flung military base, a few lumps more comfortable than a bedroll.

Anakin. Padme. Leia. Luke.

Home.

x x x

He reluctantly disengages from Padme to dress, heart as heavy as those Jedi boots she'd tweaked him about hours before. Shrugging on his tunic with a disheartened exhale – getting back _into_ it doesn't offer near the bliss as having his wife peel it off – Anakin is not surprised by what he finds outside the door.

Han Solo lies in a crumpled ball on the floor, his snore as disorderly as the hair falling atop his closed eyes. There isn't one splayed limb that appears remotely comfortable.

Anakin makes a mental note to comm Padme before they reach Coruscant. If Solo is this earnest in looking after his twins, the least he can do is afford him a cot near their crib.

He retrieves one of his spare cloaks and drapes it around the boy, whispers his thanks.

Obi-Wan rounds the corner, his attire befitting a modest tribesman or well-traveled outworlder. Exposure as Jedi would be disastrous, although the master has retained the high boots he fancies. "May I?" he asks softly, indicating the crib, and Anakin approaches it with him, their steps silent.

By the luminescent rays of Alderaan's moon, Obi-Wan slides a finger across Luke's foot, then Leia's forehead. His throat grows thick with emotion he cannot articulate for these children, this family, these _attachments_ he's not supposed to have, if not for the rebellious father who'd snagged his heart first.

"I was thinking I'd rub their heads for luck," the Jedi master quips to evade maudlin sentimentality. He grins slightly as a tickle across the sole of Luke's foot elicits a twitching of the boy's stubby toes.

"You don't believe in luck," Anakin rejoins, pressing his fingers to his lips, then transferring the ghost of a kiss to Leia's warm temple, followed by Luke's. "Besides, if there is one peep from this crib, Han will probably come running with blaster primed. Then you'll have to deal with their mother."

"Good point." But neither man seems inclined to move. Anakin finally commands his boots to push away from the crib, each footfall more leaden than the last. Better that his parting image of them is this: tangled in their blankets and each other, content.

Obi-Wan steps over Solo, leaving Anakin alone with his wife.

The Jedi husband drops to his knees, inhales the citrusy scent of his wife's soap and allows his flesh-hand to roam once – just once, or he won't leave her – from her brow to her dainty chin. _Sleep well,_ he persuades through the Force, knowing if her eyes flutter open and he hears his name from her lips…

He'd uttered it a handful of times just hours ago, worshipping her place in his heart as reverently as her body, but he has more than a standard year of time to recompense.

"By the Force, I love you, Padme. Always."

Then he's gone.

x x x

Neither Jedi feels much like making polite – or impolite, for that matter – conversation as the _Falcon_ lifts smoothly from the runway. Obi-Wan takes note, however, when the coordinates Anakin had detailed in the pre-flight plan differ from the numbers he now programs into the control panel.

"Something wrong with the nicely hidden Coruscanti hangar we agreed on yesterday?"

His former padawan inclines his head as if listening to a voice unheard. "The Force," he says, firmly, "is telling me to go somewhere else."

The sigh is Obi-Wan's. "I sense it, too." He notices that Anakin's back is far too erect for this standard hour of the morning, his eyes too bright. "The Temple."

A quick flash of that azure, a curt nod. "Yes."

Not for the first time, Obi-Wan sends a gripe of bewilderment into the Force, then searches for his center, breathes deeply into the brilliance of the stars. _At this moment,_ _I am not meant to understand; I am meant to listen._

"At last word, the Temple rests in the hands of the Empire. We'll likely meet resistance." Obi-Wan pauses, appraising Anakin's bearing for forecast into his mindset. "What do you expect to find there, aside from pain?"

His brother's reply comes after a heavy silence and a stab of disgrace that reverberates through both of their signatures. "I-I don't know."

But the Force is pulsing more insistently now, an unconditional mandate that defines itself with pristine clarity.

Reckoning_. _

_Finis. For now._

_Buckle up, folks: We're heading toward the homestretch of this story, as the events of Mustafar come full circle for our intrepid Jedi and those who love them. _

_A bit of housekeeping here: I have a minor medical thing that needs attention, so my next update may not be for a few weeks. Don't worry; I'll be thinking through the plot points as our boys make for the Jedi Temple. As always, though, I'd love to hear your feedback regarding this turn of events, so please don't be shy. _

_:)_


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